Once Was Lost
by Shazrolane
Summary: Clint didn't have much other than his skills with a Paleolithic weapon and the ability to survive almost every shit storm life ever threw at him. His life before Coulson found him was tough. His life afterwards may just prove to be tougher.
1. Chapter 1

"Agent Barton," he answered the phone as he tossed another dart at the board in his office. His bosses were waiting for a report but really, they were used to his reports being late.

"I have some information that may be of interest to you."

He leaned forward in his seat, the rest of the forgotten darts rolling off his desk and landing on the floor. "Phil! Man, how have you been? It's been WAY too long since we've talked! I know this isn't a social call. What's up?"

"One of my cases just intersected with one of yours."

"All right, spill," Agent Barton encouraged, kicking his chair back from his desk so he could slouch.

"I'm in Turkey, following a lead," said Coulson. "I've had a team hunting this one for a while, ever since he tried to kill one of ours. We've gotten close a few times, but he's always managed to slip by. We thought we finally had him cornered in the Carpathian Mountains yesterday but he jumped into a river."

"In January?!" He couldn't decide if that made the man brave or stupid. Probably both.

"We were close," Coulson replied in his dry tone. "We've been chasing him since we found his safe house last week."

"Look babe, you know I'm loving story time here," Barton could hear Coulson's snort over the pet name and grinned, "but it's not like you to wax poetic. I'm assuming there's a point to this?"

"Have I ever wasted your time?"

"There was the epic Hot Dog Discussion of '02…"

"Now who's wasting time?"

Barton smirked. "Point taken. So what made this so interesting?"

"He had to abandon his gear to swim the river. He left his bow behind."

"HOLY Mother of… you found The Archer?" he exclaimed, his lack of interest solved. He'd been one of the people working on the mysterious hit man for months, tracking him across South America, the Middle East and Europe.

"Want to team up on this guy? We've made a thorough search of the towns and villages downstream. We think he went into the wild. We'll need more manpower for that."

Frantically reaching for a notepad he replied, "Damn skippy I do!" He settled down for a long planning session, sending out emails and making notes on what his team would need in order to finally bring down their target.

Seven days, a long plane ride and many miserable hikes in the Romanian mountains later, he answered his mobile phone while standing on a street corner in the pouring rain, trying to gather his scattered team. Nothing had worked out; the Archer was continuing to earn his reputation as someone who could live off the grid, fit into crowds, avoid standing out and in general making himself damned hard to track.

"Agent Barton. Make it good, I'm feeling irritable."

"He's in Craiova." Coulson sounded warm. And dry. No, it wasn't possible to hear temperatures, but the bastard sounded like he had everything HIS team didn't.

Barton started cursing. "He was in the Piatra Craiului Mountains!" He glared in the direction of the mountains, hidden by miles and rain. "I knew Brașov was going to be a dead end, but _no_, intel has us searching a walled city for this asshole." He made an obscene gesture in the general direction of Craiova and the SHIELD agent. It was childish, sure, but it made him feel better. _Something_ had to. "He's in Craiova? How did he get there? No, wait, better question, how did you find him?" He began the long slog back to the cheap hotel they had rented rooms in. If their target wasn't here, then at least they could get warm and dry and actually take the time to eat. And damned if he was giving up the first shower; rank had to come with _some_ privileges, didn't it?

"I found the account his clients were paying into. There was enough in that I think it may have been his only one. SHIELD will have to thank him for his charitable contribution when we finally meet."

"Smug is not becoming on you, Coulson, it really isn't."

"I'm not smug."

"That's smugness in your tone."

"Just keeping you informed."

"Smug bastard."

They didn't catch him in Craiova. Barton's annoyance was soothed somewhat by the fact that Coulson's team had ended up just as empty handed. They didn't catch him in Belgrade, nor in Sarajevo, but by then they had switched tactics. Now they were just driving him, not letting him rest. Barton and Coulson kept leap frogging their teams, one behind the Archer, pushing him, while the other team set up ahead. Their main goal was to keep him moving, deny him a chance to rest and recover.

Six days in, his phone rang with the call he'd been waiting for. Coulson's voice, calm and collected "He's in Nis."

"We can be there in an hour." He was grabbing for a map and pointing out their new destination to their pilot.

"Get him."

Barton didn't bother to hang up as he turned around to brief his team.

Two hours later, in Nis, he sat on a rickety chair in a dump of a room and called Coulson back. "I'm sitting in his room. Real five star place here, the roaches were very welcoming." He watched one calmly walk up the wall, not seeming to care about the people in the room.

"Sounds lovely. Is he there with you?"

"No, but now he's poor, cold and desperate."

"He's been that for six days."

"He's also now a brunette." Barton looked at the hair dye staining the cracked bowl. He got out of the chair and looked out the broken window down into the alley slowly filling in with freshly falling snow. "Hope he enjoys running through this delightful February weather we're having. Did I mention I have his jacket? Little too small for me, but it's good leather. At least, it was before it got water logged." He looked at the agents still stationed in the alley and kicked at the wall in frustration. They'd been _that_ close. "I hate this cat and mouse; I'd really rather try to grab him now."

"We need to keep this up for just a while longer. This is where he's going to start to slip up," Agent Coulson's voice sounded confident.

"I just hope it's with me and not you. I want to take him down. This guy is making me feel like a fool."

There was a beat of silence. "How is that different from any other day?"

"Now that was uncalled for, Coulson."

"I'm certain your team is capable."

"Smug bastard."

Three days, six cities and one pounding headache later, he answered his phone.

"Agent Barton."

"Sofia, Bulgaria."

Agent Barton sighed tiredly. "I'm going to stop listening to our analysts. I _told_ them to go to Sofia." He sat down tiredly on a nearby bench and motioned for one of his agents to come over. His only consolation was that if he was feeling this tired, the Archer had to be feeling worse. The two teams at least could trade off and get some sleep, eat some decent food.

"Why?" Coulson's voice sounded mildly curious, which in any other person would be a demand for information.

He gestured at the agent to round everyone up. The man gave a resigned sigh and started calling over their comms for the team to gather back at their base. Barton rubbed at his temples in frustration. "Just had this feeling that's where he would go. So what's the latest update?"

"Things are really start to get interesting."

In the background, he could hear a sharp intake of breath and low cursing. He knew those sounds; someone was getting patched up. "You calling a situation interesting scares me." His phone buzzed to let him know of an incoming call, but he ignored it for now.

Coulson ignored him to continue. "One of my agents is a long time analyst with S.H.I.E.L.D. who just qualified for field work. I wasn't 100% certain about taking a rookie, but we figured her skills as an analyst would come in handy. She caught up with him through sheer dumb luck. She'd fallen behind and got lost. She's walking down the sidewalk when she sees him jumping down from a fire escape. She ducks into a coffee house and calls it in. We tell her to get out of there but she isn't fast enough. She heads out the back door and into the alley when she hears the footsteps behind her."

"She hears the guy?"

"You ever walk on melting snow? That crunching sound, it's not subtle."

"So your rookie stumbles on your target _and_ has the perfect footing to hear him? Tell this girl to buy lottery tickets, she's got the luck." Barton looked to the heavens and silently asked why _he_ couldn't manage to have this sort of luck. A handful of wet snow dropped off of a tree branch and onto his face. Typical.

"It gets better. Rookie blurts out 'My daughter is almost three. I promised I'd be home for her birthday.'"

"She's appealing to the, what, sense of family? Empathy? Of a hired killer?" Barton snorted. "This guy doesn't give a shit about family." Another phone call came in and he sent it to voice mail. He got most of the snow off of his face, but some of it had trickled down the front of his coat.

"Whatever it was, it worked."

He stopped his quest to get rid of the cold, wet intrusion to stare at his phone in shock. "You are shitting me."

"This all went out live over comms. She says 'I've got a picture of her on my phone.' There's silence for a few seconds, then she screams. Yells out 'What was that for?' We get there as fast as we can. Our agent is in shock in the alley. She tells us the guy said she should go back to her old job, shouldn't be out in the field with a kid. Then he shoots the rookie through the phone and into her hand."

"She gonna recover?"

"Medic say she's going to have problems with her hand for her rest of her life, most likely, and she had to be treated for shock but yeah, she's going to recover."

"Your rookie's got the luck, that's for sure." One of his agents came up, pointing at his own phone urgently, then at Barton, who waved him off irritably.

"It gets better. The rookie got a picture of the target on her StarkPhone. We were able to recover it. We're running it through facial recognition right now."

Less than an hour later, Barton was in an airport, tired, frustrated and dialing Phil's phone while he waited for a flight in a direction he hadn't anticipated.

"You've reached the voice mail box of Agent Coulson."

"Coulson, goddammit, pick up. I just got pulled off of the Archer and I know you know why. Who is he? What's going on? Coulson, I swear to God you'd better pick up. Smug bastard. Call me."

Coulson, of course, didn't. Not once on the long flight back to D.C., nor while he was finally getting caught up on his sleep, nor during the longest debrief of his life, especially considering that the op was still ongoing. As soon as he could make it back to his office, he opened all of his files on the Archer, stared at the wall map, and sent out some painstakingly casual emails to friends in as many different alphabet agencies as he could. By the next morning, he had his answer. He called Phil.

"You've reached the voice mail box of Agent Coulson."

"Phil! How's Greece this time of year? So, Thessaloniki, huh? You close to getting him yet?" He couldn't keep the cocky grin off of his face or out of his voice.

His triumph lasted less than an hour. He knew it was somehow Phil's fault that his computer access had been rescinded. Using paper files slowed him down, but he hadn't built up the network of connections he had for no reason. Emails were faster, but coffee and doughnuts opened up the lines of communication in a way that nothing else could. It took him two days, but as he put together the clues gathered from all of his sources, his gut started bothering him more and more. Phil was headed in the wrong direction. He may have been pulled off of the case officially, but he was invested in this one now. Time for another call to Phil. Barton mentally placed a bet with himself that _this_ time, Phil would take the call.

"You've reached the voice mail box of Agent Coulson."

"You've stalled. I know the analysts are telling you that he's gonna go west, but they're wrong. My gut's telling me that he's gonna run east. "

CLICK. Barton fist pumped and silently congratulated himself.

"Why do you say that?"Coulson's voice was quiet and calm, as always, but to those who knew him, an edge of exhaustion was creeping in. The strain of running both teams was getting to him. "Why would he run east? He's wanted by the authorities in Turkey."

"Exactly. It's the one place in that area that he really needs to stay out of. It's perfect. Check Istanbul."

Coulson hung up. Barton smirked.

The next day, it was Phil that called him. "He zigged when we thought he would zag. It gave him time to take a contract, make the hit, we couldn't get there in time to stop him."

Barton ran his hand over his face, dismayed. "Now he's got money. It gives him some more options." He looked at his office, every horizontal surface covered in files and papers, the walls covered in maps. "Where was he?"

"Istanbul."

"I …"

"Don't say I told you so."

Man, Coulson sounded bitchy when he was tired. Agent Barton grinned. "Would I do that?"

"Yes."

"Yep. I told you so."

Agent Coulson sighed.

"Sooner you get him, the sooner you can come home, Phil. It's nice here. They have cheesesteaks."

Coulson hung up. Barton left to go get a cheesesteak. In Phil's honor, of course. He hadn't even finished it when the next call came in. "You've reached the voice mailbox of Agent Barton."

"Stop messing around."

Barton laughed and polished off the rest of the sandwich. "Just giving you a taste of your own medicine. What's the update?"

"The Archer just got captured by the opposing gang." This time, it was obvious that Agent Coulson was tired.

"Problem solved then, wash your hands and come home."

"We're going in to get him."

"Wait, what? He's K.O.S., the people that have him aren't exactly going to show him a good time. Let them solve your problem for you. _You're_ not a contract killer, you get paid no matter who takes him out. Relax and come home, man."

The silence on Coulson's end lasted long enough that he knew something was up. "Spill. What's going on?"

"Sofia changed things for me."

Agent Barton knew his voice had to be incredulous. "You goin' soft on me, old man?"

Coulson's voice was oddly hesitant. "I want to give him a chance."

"You're crazy. He'll shoot you in the back. There's no way this freak is worth it." He tossed the paper the sandwich had been wrapped in at the trash can on his way out of the restaurant.

"I've got my reasons."

Barton shook his head. "He might already be dead. How pissed off are the people that grabbed him?"

"Remember that hit he took? He just shot their leader."

"Ouch. Well, if you're going to get him, go do it while there's still something to get. Still think you're crazy, though."

"I'll let you know one way or the other." There was something off about Coulson's voice, but he couldn't place it.

"Sounds good old man." He headed back to his office. He'd been getting increasingly less subtle reminders that he had reports that needed to be written. Maybe this would be a good time to work on them.

Over the next five hours, Barton finished off an entire pot of coffee. He hadn't been drinking it to stay awake for Phil's call. Nope. Just happened to feel like having some coffee. A lot of coffee. Of the foul break room variety. He'd caught on all of his overdue paperwork as the offices cleared out around him and the constant hum of activity dwindled down to near silence. The ring of the phone, when it finally came, startled him out of the light doze he'd fallen in to.

"We got him." Mentally, he did a victory dance around his office. In reality, he was tired, and the exhaustion bleeding through Agent Coulson's voice made Barton wince in sympathy. "He still alive?"

"We got there in time, although it was…less than pretty." He frowned a bit; Phil wasn't normally this reticent with information. They were both experienced with the less than pleasant aspects of their job. When you dealt with the sort of scum they did, you learned to deal with the horrible things people did to each other. It never got easy, but it was a little bit less horrible when the scum did the bad things to each other, instead of decent people. Still, he tried to make himself care. A bit. "He gonna make it?"

"Yes. He'll have some scars out of it, but yes. He's in medical, sedated and undergoing treatment."

"What are you going to do with him?" He knew that the various agencies had people that did the dirty jobs, but most of them were military vets with specialized training, not half crazy contract killers. He didn't think S.H.I.E.L.D.'s recruitment policies were that much different.

Coulson uncharacteristically hesitated. "We're extraditing him to the U.S."

He choked on his coffee at Phil's answer. "You didn't offer him a job with S.H.I.E.L.D.? I thought you were going all soft on this guy."

"I did. He refused. This was his other option."

Barton upgraded the Archer's mental state from 'half crazy' to 'completely crazy.' Then again…"He hasn't taken any hits on U.S. soil that I know of, it might have been a smart move." He idly wondered if it would be bad taste to make a jail visit to gloat at the guy. Not a lot. Okay, maybe a lot. But really, it was deserved. And there was a good chance they wouldn't be able to keep him imprisoned for long.

"He has two previous warrants. He's going to go to trial for murder." Coulson's voice was sounding pained, but not like he was hurt. Barton never thought he'd think something like this, but if he had to describe Coulson right now, he'd have to say upset. And that was rocking his world. Coulson continued "Both charges are for murder in the first."

Barton winced. "Ouch. Okay, that may not have been a good idea." He revised 'completely crazy' to 'completely batshit insane.'

Another long pause. "It gets worse."

"Okay, what's worse?" replied Barton, a bit confused.

"Bernard," Coulson said, his voice gentle, "the Archer is your brother Clint."


	2. Trial

The Archer, Chapter 2 The Trial

A/N – Graphic description of a murder – bothered me to write it. It's…not nice. At all. If you want to skip it, there's a warning – skip from there to the next section of ****. Mentions of child abuse in the past – Clint's childhood was horrific. Gross inaccuracies of the American legal system – I tried to write this more like a real trial as far as the order of the witnesses, etc., but the story just didn't work right. If you want accuracy of the American legal system, may I suggest the Wordbutler's /series/24545 - a fantastic series written by someone who knows a lot more than I do.

The hard wood of the bench was already biting into the backs of Bernard's legs and his palms were sweating. The trial hadn't even really begun and he wasn't sure if he could sit through the entire thing. The only thing that was really keeping him in his seat was the certainty that it had to be worse for Clint. Ever since he'd been led into the courtroom, in chains and dressed in an orange jumpsuit, Clint had been sitting eerily still, elbows on his knees, hands clasped, and head down. Bernard wanted so badly to step in and make everything right, but he hadn't been able to do that for Clint for a long time. Next to him on the bench, Rob and Emma looked just as uncomfortable. He tried his best to get comfortable and settled in for the duration of the trial.

Clint's defender spoke first. "Please state your name and tell us how you know the defendant."

"Dr. David Young. I was one of Clint's pediatric surgeons while he was being treated for a fractured skull, due to the accident." Clint raised his head at the doctor's voice, as if he were meeting the doctor's eyes. The doctor gave him a small smile. A heartbeat later, Clint dropped his head again. He didn't raise it again for a long time.

"What can you tell us about Clint Barton?"

The doctor continued in his gentle, calm voice. "He was our escape artist. He shouldn't even have been out of bed, and he'd disappear for hours. We'd have to go looking for him. We'd find him in the stairwell, or in closets. He spent a lot of time in the kitchen cupboards. We eventually figured out that if we left snacks where he could reach them, and let him play video games, he'd stay where he was supposed to. And he loved watching the birds outside; he'd stare at them for hours if we let him sit near a window that looked out over the grounds." Bernard remembered those windows; he'd spent a lot of time sitting with Clint, looking out the windows, neither of them talking much.

"We had to move slowly and carefully around him, always tell him what we were going to do before we did it. He did eventually start to trust a few of us – me, some of the other staff members, after we threw a birthday party for him. Kid looked at the cake like it was the first he'd ever seen." It had been, at least since their mother died when Clint was four. Barney had tried to bake him a cake one year, but their father had found out and got mad at them for 'wasting food.' It hadn't ended well. He'd managed to steal a cupcake for Clint one year, from some other kid's birthday party in the park. He'd given it to Clint in the middle of the night, after their father had passed out. Clint's tongue was still purple from the icing in the morning.

"We started giving him some attention by playing card games with him. But not Go Fish or anything that like. 'Kid games' he'd say in disgust and throw the cards on the ground. I think he beat all of us at poker. He had to have been counting cards. But we didn't play for money or anything like that! Just jelly beans." Of course Clint was good at poker. It was the only thing he could do with their father that made him proud of his younger son. Clint had always been good with numbers. He'd learned to count with cards, and learned addition and subtraction with poker chips. He'd tried so very hard to make their father like him.

"Did he have any long term damage, something that might make it difficult for him to understand the difference between right or wrong, something that would affect his anger, or his ability to control his emotions?" the defender asked.

Dr. Young was quick to answer. "No, we found no evidence of long term neurological damage. There were some issues with his sight, but he was adamant that nothing had changed since the accident. He was very aware of right and wrong, although it was often according to his own internal set of rules. He thought nothing of stealing food, or just about anything from adults, but heaven help anyone who tried to take something from one of the little kids. Clint would get it back for them, come hell or high water."

"Is there anything else you can tell us about him?"

"I was in the room when the social worker told him about his father's death. I remember it clearly because his only reaction was to ask 'Where am I going to stay now?' He was so calm about it, so detached. It was one of the eeriest things I've ever seen." Their father's funeral had consisted of some sort of official, his court appointed guardian, and himself. He'd never told his brother about it, and Clint had never asked.

Someone in the courtroom coughed, but that was the loudest sound as the doctor left the stand and the next witness was called in.

The judge's even tone called out. "Please state your name and tell us how you know the defendant."

"Lyn, I mean, Evalyn Linder. I fostered Bernard while his brother was in the hospital and when Clint was released, we took him in, too." Her hands were shaking, but her voice was steady. Bernard tried to give an encouraging look, but she was focused on the attorney, with quick glances over at Clint, who still had his head down.

"Did you have any problems with Bernard before Clint came to stay with you?"

"Of course. He was a child who needed foster care." Her body language lost some of its nervousness; fostering children was a passion of Lyn's. "Any child in that situation has problems. It's our job as foster parents to help them with these problems. But we didn't have any major issues, nothing that we hadn't dealt with before with our other foster children."

"How would you describe Clint at that time?"

"Clint was such a tiny thing – he was almost ten years old, but all the clothes we'd bought for him were too big. I took him shopping and we had to keep getting smaller and smaller sizes until we finally found something that fit. He also stole and hoarded food, almost constantly. I always wondered if those two things were connected."

She looked at the judge as she continued. "Clint didn't really know how to ask for or how to accept affection, even though it was obvious he wanted it. He'd wait until I was knitting, or reading to Emma, something where I was sitting down. He would just find some reason to be close to me, and look at me out of the corner of his eye. He'd inch closer until he was almost touching, but when I reached out to hug him, he'd flinch and move out of reach." Her voice started to break as she visibly fought back tears. "My heart just went out to him. I've cried myself to sleep over him so many times."

The judge spoke. "Would you like a tissue?"

"Yes, please. I'm sorry, I just need a moment."

"Take your time." The only sounds in the courtroom were the shifting noises of the audience, and her sniffles. Clint hadn't moved the entire time, hadn't once looked at her.

"He was so lost, and so alone, and so desperate for something that I tried to give him, but I just couldn't be enough for him. What I remember most, though, was that he was a very angry boy. The only one that could get him to talk was Barney." Even here, Bernard couldn't help mentally rolling his eyes. He'd never outgrow that childhood nickname. "Clint loved his brother, almost a hero worship. But when Barney wasn't around, Clint would get angry at the smallest things. Barney tried, but he couldn't be everywhere."

"What do you mean when you say he was angry?"

"He fought with my husband and our other foster son constantly. Screaming matches, mostly, primarily made of words no nine year old should know, but there were several times when Clint tried to get physical. Luckily my husband Rob was able to hold him down most of the time – just wrap him in a bear hug. Clint would go wild when Rob did that, but it was the only way to keep him from hitting Jason, our other boy." Several of the jury members nodded at that.

"Was this why you asked for him to be removed from your care?"

"One night there was a fight that escalated. I don't even know what started it, but in the end it took Rob and Barney both to pull Clint off of Jason. I'd never seen anything like it; he was screaming, nothing you could understand, not even words, fighting us, trying to get loose. We let him go the first time, but he immediately attacked Jason again, punching and clawing and even biting. We had to hold him for what seemed like hours before he finally tired himself out." Throughout her testimony, Bernard could see Clint growing more and more agitated, the tension building across his muscled shoulders and back visible through the prison-issue jumpsuit.

"I fell asleep in Jason's room that night, and in the morning Clint came in the room and attacked him all over again. A few weeks later he did it again. After the third time he attacked Jason, well, that was when we had to make a tough decision. Jason was twelve and he couldn't stop Clint. Emma was only four, if Clint ever attacked her she could be seriously injured." Bernard had argued, desperately, that Clint would never hurt Emma, but he just hadn't been able to convince them. Clint's school records of near constant fighting hadn't helped. "She was already scared of him, well, she was scared of Jason too, but she told us that Clint yelled at her. Clint needed more help than we could give him. We were promised that he would go to a home where the parents had more experience with boys like him. I don't see what else we could have done, but that decision has haunted me ever since." Bernard had to look away from her and from his brother. He'd never told the Linders how much their decision had eaten at Clint. In his chair at the front of the courtroom, Clint's shoulders hunched in.

"What about his brother?"

"We wanted to keep Barney, but he insisted on going with his brother." It had been hard, leaving the only stable home he'd ever known, but Clint needed him. They'd been sent to two temporary placements, then to the Garcia's.

"Mrs. Linder, did Jason ever do anything to make you think he would hurt Emma?"

"No, he never did. Emma never told us that he did anything. She was a little nervous around him sometimes, but she acted that way around a lot of people. The only one she ever told us that she was afraid of was Clint. When he yelled it really upset her and she used to run to me. It did bother her when he left, though. She slept with us for the next several months. Until Jason left."

"Thank you Mrs. Linder."

"I still don't know if we did the right thing. Clint, I'm so sorry, we did what we thought was right for you and us and Emma. I'm so sorry. I'm so…"

The judge spoke up, his voice firm and calm but sympathetic. "Bailiff, would you please get Mrs. Linder a tissue and help her down?"

Lyn was allowed to step down. She stepped out of the courtroom, to gather herself he presumed, and then came back in. Bernard made room for her and she settled down on the bench, her left hand reaching out to his and her right hand being taken by Rob. Clint had never once looked at her.

"Please state your name and tell us how you know the defendant."

"John Garcia. My wife and I fostered the boys for four days." Murmurs and rustling rose from the spectators in the courtroom.

"Why such a short time?" asked Clint's lawyer.

"On the fourth day, Clint burned our house down." Shocked gasps and talking broke out. It took the judge banging his gavel to get things quieted down. Mr. Garcia spoke briefly after that, but nothing else he said mattered. The damage had been done. Bernard knew the worst was yet to come, however, with the next witness.

"Please state your name and tell us how you know the defendant."

"Joanne Wilkerson." For the first time, Clint sat up. Arms folded across his chest, he stared at the thin woman on the stand. "My husband and I ran the Wilkerson's Home for Boys. I know Clint Barton because he murdered my husband. I will never forget that demon spawn as long as I live." Her voice fairly dripped with venom and she glared at Clint the entire time. From what Bernard could see, he was giving back as good as he got.

"How did Clint come to live with you?"

"Well after four different foster homes gave him back, they turned to us. We've always taken in troubled boys and did our best to bring them back to the straight and narrow. After Clint burned down the Garcia's house, he went to juvenile detention. When his sentence was over, he was brought to our home." Clint's arms came down from his chest, his hands in fists by his hips.

"Both of the Barton boys, you mean."

"No sir, just Clint. They had tried to keep the boys together, but it was obvious that Clint wasn't going to be adopted. He was only hurting the other boy's chances. So it was decided to split the boys up, for their own good. My understanding is that the older boy got adopted before Clint got out of juvenile detention." Lyn started crying. Bernard put his hand around her back.

"Tell us what Clint was like."

"He wouldn't talk to any of the other boys. At first he did his chores, just like the rest. We ran a farm, thought that it would teach the boys the value of honest, hard work. We had chickens, cows, a big garden. But he wouldn't talk to anyone. And after a few weeks he started climbing."

"What do you mean by that?"

"He'd climb anything. Trees, the rafters in the barn, we found him on the roof more than once. Got to the point that he wouldn't come down for meals, nothing. He slept in the hay loft in the barn." Bernard felt his own hands clenching into fists. Going up high had been one of Clint's tricks for avoiding their father.

"You just let a small boy sleep in the barn?"

"There was no 'let' about it. There was no getting that boy to do anything that he didn't want to. He had a bed. After the first month, we even gave him a room to himself, when all of the other boys shared rooms. Thought maybe he wanted the privacy. But you couldn't get that boy to sleep in it. He wouldn't come down from the barn loft when we asked, if we sent some of the older boys up to bring him down he'd climb onto the roof. We finally just let him be."

"You said he wouldn't come down for meals?"

"We tried to get him to join us, but finally I started bringing him a plate after every meal. I'd climb the ladder and leave it in the loft, pick up the empty plate from the last time." For the first time, Bernard heard Clint speak to his attorney. In a voice that was quiet but full of anger, he said "She's lyin'." The attorney looked at him and nodded, then gestured for him to remain quiet.

"You didn't think this behavior was odd?"

"Of course it was! My husband spent hours trying to get him to talk, to come down. The social workers came out, but he wouldn't talk to them, wouldn't talk to the counselor. We showed everyone that he did have a bed, that we were feeding him and doing everything we could to bring him into our family, but he was the one who wasn't having it. They said their only other option was to put him back in juvenile detention, but my husband was against that. Said the boy wasn't doing anything wrong, he didn't deserve to be locked up. If my husband hadn't been so loving towards that boy, he'd still be alive!"

"Mrs. Wilkerson, I know this must be difficult for you. Thank you."

"If I hadn't been visiting my sick sister, I would have been there. That's my proof, that he planned this for when he knew that I wouldn't be there to help my husband. And that knife he used went missing the week before." She stood up in the box, one hand white knuckled on the wood while the other pointed at Clint. Her voice raised into a shriek. "He planned it out. HE PLANNED IT!"

The courtroom erupted. During the several minutes it took to remove the still screaming Mrs. Wilkerson from the room and to get everyone quieted and settled back down, Clint relaxed his fists and slouched in his chair. Bernard knew him well enough to know he was hiding pain with his act of indifference. But this was the wrong time for it.

It was Clint's turn to take the stand.

"Please state your name."

"You know damned well who I am, you called me up here." Barney's heart sank and he wished desperately he could tell Clint to shut up. He'd always had a bad habit of playing up to people's expectations, especially when they were bad ones.

"It's for the record."

"Doesn't the record include the fact that you called me up here?" Clint flashed a nasty grin like he thought this was some kind of joke. Bernard started looking towards the defender, wondering why in the hell he had brought Clint up onto the stand in the first place. The pasty skinned attorney ran his hand through his hair. "Mr. Barton, please cooperate. I'm here to help you."

"Yeah, I've heard that a lot. Ain't usually much help. Anyway, you said my name so it's in the record twice now." Bernard dug in his pocket for an antacid. There was no way that this was going to go well. Clint never should have been allowed to speak for this. Maybe they could get this thrown out based on the defender's incompetence…

"Tell me about your home life when you were young."

"It was shit. Move on." The grin was gone.

"Let's start with your mother and father."

"Let's not."

Bernard could see the sweat gathering on the defense attorney's bald spot. "Mr. Barton, please cooperate!"

"Why you want to know all this stuff? Ain't no one's business but mine." Clint's voice was growing deeper, his accent growing more, well, more redneck. Bernard looked more like their father, but Clint had always sounded more like him, parroting his phrases and copying his way of talking.

"I want the jury to understand your situation. Do you feel that the actions that got you here were justified?"

"Talk in English." Unfortunately, this was probably the first honest thing Clint had said since he'd taken the stand. He hated it when he felt that people were making fun of his educational shortcomings.

"Do you feel that you killed Mr. Wilkerson in self-defense?"

"Obviously."

"Then help me to help the jury to understand how your life led you to the point where you were forced to make that terrible decision. Tell me about your mother and father."

Clint waited for several heartbeats before grudgingly replying "I don't remember much about Mama. She died when I was four."

"How did she die?"

It was obvious that this made Clint furious. "What the hell difference does it make?"

The steel in the judge's voice made his annoyance clear. "Mr. Barton, answer the question and keep a civil tongue in your head for the rest of this trial."

Clint glared at him. The judge glared back. Clint lost the short staring match that followed. He stared at his defender as he finally answered the question, his voice changed from the sharp anger of before. This was deeper, his accent thicker. "She was always sick, after she had me. Couldn't work no more, was in 'n out of the hospital. Just gave up one day and died." He knew that the lack of emotion in Clint's voice was his way of stuffing the hurt down, not letting it make him seem weak, but he was afraid that the jury would see it as being unfeeling.

"What was your life like afterwards?"

"Old Man was a drunk and a mean one. We mostly tried to stay clear of him." Between the deeper accent and the changes in his pattern of speaking, it was like Clint was switching gears to a slower, simpler version of himself.

"Was he abusive?"

"He sound like some kind of an angel to you?"

"We've heard that the police were familiar with you. Did you steal as a child?"

"Sure. We was hungry," Clint replied, defensively.

"Was food all that you stole?"

"Come Christmas, there's all this talk about getting presents. We never got nothing. We were kids, we got angry. We got us some toys." They'd shoplifted a video game console and been caught. Their father was out drinking, somewhere other than his usual haunts, so they'd spent the night in a holding cell.

Bernard was certain the deputies were trying to scare them straight. They'd just succeeded in convincing Clint that the police were out to get him, just like their father had always said.

"Do you remember what happened the night your father died?"

"Nope. Got a week or two that I don't remember. Woke up in the hospital. Doctors told me he was dead, Barney was with some foster parents and I'd be with them too when I got out." Clint was very pointedly not looking at the Linders. Next to him, Lyn was crying again.

"Did you like your foster parents?"

"It was alright."

"Why did you attack Jason?"

"Way he talked. Never said it, but I was smart enough to figure out what wanted. He was gonna hurt Emma. So I stopped him before he could do anything." Clint hadn't changed his story in all these years. Bernard couldn't help but to sneak a look at Emma, who was resolutely looking forward. She'd always sworn to him that Jason had never done anything. It wasn't like Clint to lie about something like that, though. He'd always wondered.

"Why didn't you tell your foster parents?"

"He'd been with them for two years. I figured they'd believe him over the new boy. Besides, I heard them talking one night, about how they was gonna have to work hard to keep two Barton boys outta trouble. Figured they already made their minds up 'bout me." Bernard jerked his head toward them in shock; the Linders had never said anything like that to him, never given him any indication that they bought in to the family's reputation as trouble makers. Lyn was still crying, Rob looked at Bernard and shook his head No. Clint must have misunderstood something he heard.

"What happened at the Garcia's? Did you intentionally set that fire?"

"I skipped school, walked back home. Got hungry, so I tried to fry some tater tots. Oil caught on fire, I tried to use the sprayer from the faucet to put it out, but then it just exploded and fire went everywhere. I ran, didn't come back until that night. Everyone was already gone except the cops." Hands down, the worst memory of Bernard's life was coming home from school to find the house on fire, the Garcias standing in shock, with no one able to find Clint anywhere. He'd argued so hard to stay at the scene, but the social worker and the police had manhandled him into a car. He and Clint had fought that morning, and he'd told Clint that he was tired of having an idiot for a baby brother. It had haunted him for all this time. He'd never seen his brother since, not until Phil Coulson had brought him in.

"Did you explain what happened to anyone?"

"They was all yellin' at me, tellin' me I was going to juvie. Said my brother was better off without me. Said I'd never see him again. Just kinda gave up, didn't talk to anyone." One or two of the jury members looked sympathetic, some of the others were shaking their heads.

"Tell me about the Wilkerson's Home for Boys."

"Worst place I'd been yet, and that was sayin' something." Lyn's hand tightened on his.

From across the courtroom, Mrs. Wilkerson yelled out "That's a lie! You lying little…" before the judge yelled for order. After things calmed down, Clint's attorney started again.

"What made it so bad, the hard work?"

Clint shrugged. "Naw, I was used to growin' food, and I kinda liked working with animals. Treat 'em right and they treat you right."

"Is that why you started sleeping in the barn?" Bernard didn't want to hear what came next, didn't want to know. At home, Clint had always come inside their tiny travel trailer, once their dad had fallen asleep.

Absolute silence was Clint's only reply.

"Mr. Barton, please answer me. Is that why you started sleeping in the barn?"

Clint looked down. His voice, when he finally spoke, could barely be heard. "Did that to get away from Old Man Wilkerson. He was too fat to climb the ladder, and even if he did I could get out on the rafters over the cow stalls."

"Why did you need to get away from him?"

Another silence, except for a cell phone that went off and was quickly quieted.

"Mr. Barton, was he abusive to you?"

This silence was longer. As the questions got more personal, his façade began to crack. Bernard could see the battle raging in his brother, as if he wanted to stop, but at the same time, as if he had been carrying this burden for a long time. He thought that some part of his brother wanted people to know, wanted them to understand why he felt as if he had to do this unspeakable act. Why it was justified…Clint eventually gave one short, quick nod.

"Please let the record show that Mr. Barton nodded."

"That is a lie! That man never did anything to anyone!"

The stern voice of the judge interrupted her. "Mrs. Wilkerson, have a seat and be quiet."

"I will not have my dead husband accused of something so horrible!"

"Mrs. Wilkerson, if you can't control yourself you will have to leave."

"He's lying! There's not a single one of our boys who has ever had something bad to say about Mr. Wilkerson!"

"Bailiff, please escort Mrs. Wilkerson out of the courtroom." She yelled the entire time she was walking down through the courtroom. Clint sat as still as a stone, staring down at the ground.

"Mr. Barton, describe the night of the incident to us."

****[warning for violent content; skip ahead to **** to miss it]

His reply was in a low and even tone, with almost no emotion. "I'd put up with him for a year, just about. I was mostly keeping away from him. But then this new boy comes in and I see how Wilkerson is looking at him. I wasn't gonna let that happen. So I made sure Wilkerson wasn't gonna hurt no one else. I came down to the kitchen and found the biggest knife I could. Pulled the phone out of the wall and broke it, so they couldn't call for help. And then I walked into the room where everyone was eating. I walked right up to him and I leaned in close and I said to him, real quiet, Don't you touch that boy. He puts his fork down, and looks at me and he says…he says…I'm not…he…"

"Take a deep breath."

When he spoke again, Clint's voice had a strange quality, almost as if he was describing a dream. "…Punched that knife right into his fat belly. Everyone started screaming. He grabbed at my face. Thought he was gonna pull it right off, his fingers was digging into my cheek and my mouth… pulled the knife out and punched it in again…" Clint was looking off into space, not really focusing on the courtroom, as if he was seeing the events of that night. "Just kept doing that until he let go and the screaming stopped." He shook his head and looked at his attorney. "You know how it is when you're in a room and the AC cuts off? You weren't even hearing it until it shut off…didn't really hear the noise until it stopped."

The silence lay thick over the courtroom. Bernard was sick to his stomach, his hands clenched so tightly that they ached. Clint was going to go down for this. Bernard would have to start digging, find out exactly how this pathetic excuse for a trial had been allowed to occur. He wasn't going to give up on his baby brother without a fight. He'd let Clint down once; he wouldn't do it again.

"Looked at the room … there was blood all over the walls and the table, and this big spongy red mess where…I…."

Clint was growing agitated, clenching his jaw. His legs was jogging up and down, as if he wanted to run, wanted to get away from the consequences that he knew he was going to have to face.

"Another breath."

"…dropped the knife, and I ran…stole a dirtbike and then a car … ran 'em both out of gas … ran through the woods until I couldn't run no more…Woke up covered in blood, puked… did my best to wash up in a creek. Just started walking. Walked for two days until I found Carson's."

There were more witnesses, men who had been boys at the home, police officers, but the trial really ended with Clint's testimony. The jury deliberated for less than hour before returning with their verdict.

"Your Honor, we find the defendant guilty of murder in the first degree."

Clint was sentenced to life without parole. Bernard started his fight to save his little brother that night.


	3. Arizona

The Archer Chapter 3 Arizona

A/N See end for notes and warnings

A/N Gross inaccuracies of the American legal system. I did research, but when reality conflicted with story telling, I went for what made the story work better for me. Another fairly graphic description of a murder; if you want to avoid it, skip the section about the restaurant.

Also, Clint makes disparaging remarks about lawyers. This are Clint's opinions, not mine. My personal interactions with people in this field have led me to believe that, like every other field, there are the good, the mediocre and the bad. Interesting note: this chapter was originally set in Missouri, but it turns out that Missouri literally wrote the book (well, the paper) on improving conditions for death row inmates. Arizona was chosen simply because I could find detailed information about life for inmates on Arizona's death row - taken from .gov/dr_ .

The lawyer came into the visiting room, a stack of files in his hand. Clint could see his name on the top one. The dark skinned man in the gray suit sat down at the table and held his hand out. "Mr. Barton, I'm William James. I'll be your public defender here in Arizona."

Clint slammed his fists down on the table and said angrily, "I didn't kill him!"

The attorney didn't flinch, didn't react, merely replied calmly, "I'm sure you didn't."

"Don't take that freakin' tone with me, like I'm stupid or something. I killed Wilkerson, I'll admit to it. It was self-defense, but I'll admit that I killed him. I didn't kill Carson! If there was anyone I wouldn't kill, it'd be Carson! He's about the only damned person I don't want to be dead!"

The lawyer leaned in. "Mr. Barton, I believe you. Honestly. But the fact remains that you are _accused_ of killing him. It's our job to convince a jury that you're innocent."

"Okay, whatever. Nice to meet you and all that crap. Can I go back to my cell already?"

"Mr. Barton, we really need to plan your defense. I need you to cooperate with me."

Clint wanted to shove his chair back from the table, but it was bolted down and so were the chairs. He wanted to storm out, but the door was locked. Given his disciplinary record from the prison in Iowa, he was handcuffed here. He couldn't even get up and walk around. The forced inactivity chaffed at him, ratcheting up his tension and anxiety.

"Cooperated plenty with the last guy, look where it got me. I already got life without parole. Whatcha gonna do, let me die of old age and them bring me back as a zombie? Even if I'm innocent, it ain't like they're gonna let me out of prison. Doesn't matter if I'm in Iowa or Arizona."

"Mr. Barton, Arizona is a different state with…"

"No shit. I ain't that dumb, jack..."

"WITH DIFFERENT LAWS." 

"Different states have different laws? That's stupid, it's all part of the same country. What's the point of that?"

"The Constitution allows for different states to have their own laws, provided they don't…look, that's really not the point."

Clint grinned to himself; he'd managed to knock the guy off his game. "…Well what is the point?"

"Given your previous admission to murder, and the brutality of this one, as well as the obvious preparations that clearly indicate this was pre-meditated, there's a very good chance that you will be facing the most serious sentence."

"Toldja, already doin' life. That's pretty serious." At least this was better than sitting in his cell. If he could keep rattling the guy, this might just prove to be entertaining. He leaned back in his chair, at least as far as he could, and settled in to enjoy a long session of "fuck with the smart guy's head."

The lawyer's next sentence drive all of those thoughts out of his head, as well as most of the air out of his lungs. "Mr. Barton, unlike Iowa, Arizona has the death penalty." Clint sat up, all thoughts of humor gone. He had found something worse than a life sentence. His defense attorney continued, "Now that I have your attention, let's start planning your defense." Clint spent the rest of the meeting paying very close attention.

They continued to work closely over the months. There was very little evidence on his side, even with Barney doing his best to track down leads for them. Mr. James was honest that his chances were slim, and brought up the possibility of a plea bargain, but Clint refused adamantly. So they continued on until the day of his trial.

Unlike his first trial, this time Clint entered the courtroom wearing the nicest pair of pants he'd ever owned, a so-new-it-was-stiff button down shirt, new shoes and a tie, all of it bought for him by Barney.

Grizzie from the circus was there, testifying that Clint and Carson had argued. She wouldn't look him in the eye, but he didn't hold it against her. The only thing she said was that she had heard the two of them arguing, and that was true. He had bigger things to worry about. Sure enough, the prosecutor brought up his earlier conviction and mentioned how he killed Wilkerson. His attorney pointed out that Clint viewed that as self defense, and explained that his defender was later brought before the bar. The jury still seemed like they had already turned against Clint. He started sweating in his fancy shirt. Only his experience with hunting, both animals and people, allowed him to keep still instead of jogging his leg up and down with nervousness, until it was his turn to testify.

His attorney strode forward confidently, his light colored suit contrasting with dark skin, painting a picture of competence. "Mr. Barton, please tell the jury how you came to know Mr. Carson."

"He ran Carson's Carnival. When I was eleven, I joined up with them."

"He just let an eleven year old boy join his traveling circus?" His attorney's voice had a bit of disbelief, but they had talked about this, so it didn't throw him too much.

Clint nodded as he continued "He always told me, when a kid with no shirt and the bruises I had comes walking out of the woods, you kinda think something's up. I'd come up around dinner time. It was the smell of dinner cooking that had led me to them. So I kinda stood there, close to the woods in case I needed to run, and tried to figure out if there was some way I could earn some of that food." That night was still so clear in Clint's memory. He'd taken the shirt off the first morning he woke up in the woods, when he realized it was stiff with Wilkerson's blood. When he had finished puking, he'd started walking, washed up in the first stream he found, and kept walking. He'd spent that night on a pile of leaves, and it wasn't until the evening of the second day that he had stumbled across the circus.

"What was his reaction?" Clint very carefully didn't look at the jury, but he could see them out of the corner of his eye. Some of them were leaning forward, and all of them were paying close attention. Maybe they were willing to listen to him.

"This really little guy, I mean, he wasn't a dwarf or nothing, but he was shorter than me, and I was eleven. This little guy, he goes to get some food, and comes back with two plates. Puts one down on the table, across from him, and says 'If you're hungry, come eat.' I wasn't sure if I could trust him or not, but I sure was hungry, so I sat down and started eating. I'd seen the way that one of his legs doesn't seem like it works quite right. Figured if he tried anything funny, I could take a guy like him. He took one look at me and says 'I'm guessing you don't want to go back where you came from.' I said no and he said I could stay." Clint still remembered the taste of that dish of beans and rice; to this day, it was his favorite comfort food.

"He never contacted the authorities about you?"

"I got the impression that I wasn't the only one at the circus who wanted to stay away from that sort of attention. We did our best to solve our problems without outside help." Clint had loved that part of the circus culture, the idea that they didn't need anyone else.

"What was life like for you with the circus?" Over the months they'd worked together Mr. James' voice had lost the tone of disbelief it had contained earlier at the fact that Clint had actually grown up in a circus. Now his voice held only professional tones, very matter of fact. Hopefully it would help to keep the jury focused.

"Long as I did my fair share of the work and kept my head down, I stayed out of trouble."

"What sort of work could an eleven year old do?" He sounded interested now. Clint risked a look over at the jury box. Sure enough, they were following the attorney's lead, getting more interested despite themselves.

"Picked up trash, emptied out the cans, cleaned stalls and cages. Helped set stuff up, broke stuff down. Once they figured out I wasn't afraid of heights, I helped with the rigging. Talked one of the guys into getting his hunting license and taking me with him, started getting whatever game was in season. I ate some, traded the rest of the good stuff. The organs and the meat that wasn't as good, used that to feed the cats."

"What happened when you did get into trouble?"

His lawyer had explained to Clint that they needed to get the jury to understand exactly how important Carson had been to Clint. It had been so difficult for him to open up, but he and the lawyer had practiced over and over again, until Clint was used to opening up a bit to him, to sharing more of a story than was his usual habit "First time, I was so scared. I didn't want another beating, but this was the best place I'd been in a while, so when they marched me up to Carson, I didn't fight too much. Figured whatever it was that he wanted to do to me, I had to just put up with it, or he wouldn't let me stay."

"What did he do?"

"I'd stolen a pistol from one of the motorcycle riders, this little .22. Carson made me give it back, then told me that I needed to understand how hard it was to be able to afford that kind of money. So he told me that I was going to have to earn the cost of the pistol and pay it to Victor. I couldn't just work at a stand or anything, 'cause that would just be taking money from the person that would normally work that shift. I'd have to find some way to earn money that wouldn't take it from someone else."

"Was money that tight at the circus?"

"We weren't the Ringling Brothers, you know? We managed to eat every night, but it wasn't nothing fancy. Taking money from someone, yeah, you might be taking food from their family's table."

"How did you earn the money?"

"I started out selling cotton candy, but since I had to buy the stuff to make the candy, I didn't make that much. So I asked Ron, one of the clowns, to teach me how to juggle. I started doing little juggling tricks on the fairway, or for the crowds that were waiting for the show to start. I'd put out a hat and collect tips." Ron was one of the people that Clint missed the most. The guy had been so calm, so patient, with Clint, always giving him encouragement. He always had a story to tell, and when Clint was feeling really low, he'd let Clint pet one of the many rescued house cats that were part of his act. The archer hoped that Ron knew he hadn't killed Carson. If that good man gave up on him, Clint would feel as if there was no one left who thought he was worth anything.

Mr. James' voice brought him back to the present. "How much did you have to pay back?"

"125 bucks. Took me three months. After that, I kept up the juggling to keep making money."

"You were eleven. Why did you need money?"

"Had to buy food."

"And if you didn't have enough money to buy food?"

"If I had to, I could get dinner from Carson. Sometimes he'd just show up at my spot, hand me something, and walk away."

"Was food the only reason you needed money?"

"That and a trailer or something so I'd have a place of my own."

"Where did you stay in the meantime?"

"Got a sleeping bag, in the summer just slept in that. In the winter slept in one of the tents with the animals." One of the women in the jury made a shocked gasp that drew his attention, but he quickly turned back to the lawyer. "After a while, bought a tent. Ended up staying in that the whole time I was with 'em."

"Nobody took you in?"

"Couple of 'em offered, including Carson. Said no." Clint shrugged. Sleeping outside in a bag had seemed far preferable to locking himself up with someone he didn't know. Hell, being locked up with his old man hadn't been a good thing, either.

"So you've been supporting yourself since you were eleven."

"Guess so." Clint hadn't really thought of it like that; more like he finally didn't have to answer to other people.

"How did you end up as a performer?"

"I was looking for ways to improve my juggling, so I snuck into the prop tent one afternoon, found a bow and some arrows. Took 'em out back and started practicing with them. Did that a few times a week until it got to where I could hit the bullseye every time. Buck Chisolm, went by Trickshot, he was one of the headliners. It was his stuff I was taking. I tried not to lose the arrows, but I finally lost one. After that, he knew something was up, started watching his stuff. I was a dumb kid, I got caught. But he watched me practice before he came after me. Once he knew I could shoot he sorta pulled me into his act. Eventually I took over the whole act, after Buck left." God, he had such mixed feelings about Trick. But the end, that last night, always came crashing back and poisoned any good thing the man had ever done for him.

Mr. James kept up with his questions. "How long were you with Carson's Carnival?"

"Six and a half, seven years."

"Did you get along with everyone there?"

"Of course not. Mark never got over me taking his pistol, so he and Dennis, the other motorcycle guy, they were always jerks. The Pepins thought I was after their daughter, Jacques and I never got along. Buck started out okay, but when I got better than he was, he started getting' mean."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Started hittin' people more. Was drinkin' more, yelling at people. We were all pretty happy when he left." He shrugged, hoping Mr. James would leave it at that. He didn't, of course.

"Hitting people, or hitting you?"

It was still difficult to admit to any sort of weakness, but they'd been over this before. They needed the jury to feel sympathetic to Clint, and to make them willing to consider that Chisolm could have committed the murder and had a reason to frame Clint.

Clint looked down at his hands, clenched in his lap. "Hitting me, mostly. He used to just smack me a bit, when I missed, or when he didn't think I was practicing enough, but towards the end, I had to stay away from him as much as I could. He knocked down Julia, one of the horse riders and Celia had some bruises from him grabbing her arm one night."

"Talk to me about the night Carson was killed." For the first time, the defense attorney's voice sounded gentle. They'd been over this so many times, but it never got any easier. Clint kept his gaze locked on his hands.

"Someone called the animal cops on us, reported abuse, so we spend most of the day dealing with them tearing things apart. They took a lot of people to question them, I figured that was where Carson was all day. Then in the middle of that, one of the zebras got loose, so most of us spent hours trying to find it. So now the animal people are going nuts over that, too. Someone finally catches her and bring her back, but I'm looking somewhere else, and I don't find out for hours that she's back, mostly safe. Found out later the chain on the pen had been cut."

"I finally get back, tired and hungry and I have to get straight into my costume and get ready to do my act. By the time I finish, it's late at night. I needed to talk to Carson, but he wasn't in his trailer. I went in his office, the safe was open and empty. Carson never would have done that; he was always real careful with our money. I…I had this feeling that something was wrong, so I went looking for him. Nobody had seen him for a while. Turns out, the last time anyone could remember talking to him was that morning. I started lookin' for places. We were set up in the parking lot of this old mall, not too many places around. I finally see this Chinese restaurant with an Out of Business sign. It's a pretty big building, large parking lot, backs onto this industrial park that looks like a ghost town on the weekend. Place is isolated."

The memories were rising up unbidden – the smell of elephant dung mixing with the smell of the asphalt in the heat, the sound of traffic on a distant highway, the aching of his feet. His hand reaching out to try the front door, which opened to his touch.

"The door was open, I walk inside and it's cold. I mean, the AC is on. This place is closed, it should be like an oven but instead it's cool. The walls are these murals in dark and shiny metal, all these Chinese pictures, and I remember thinking it was so pretty, it was so wrong that something bad was happening there, and I was just saying to myself Please let him be okay, please let him be okay…"

Clint had to swallow down the bile that rose to the back of his throat at the continuing memories. "There's these big double doors, in dark leather with buttons or something, like that office in James Bond, what's that guy's name?"

One of the jurors responded without thinking, "M." Clint looked over at him and nodded, then stopped for a moment and closed his eyes. But that made the images from the day take over, so he opened his eyes to the more welcome sight of the courtroom.

"I could smell the blood as soon as I pushed the door open. I been huntin' since I was young, always processed my own game, I know this smell. And I don't…I don't want to see what's behind that door, but I have to..." His voice broke. It took everything he had learned from years on the streets and his years of being a hardened killer not to break down.

"The middle of this restaurant, it's got this huge tree, with ceramic leaves and flowers and little birds on it, and there's lights wired on all the branches that look like more flowers, and it's one of the prettiest things I've ever seen, and, and it's the worst thing I've ever seen because he's laying on the pedestal it's on and there's my arrows sticking in him and…Buck's standing over him. He was…they had…"

Clint couldn't breathe, he couldn't get the picture out of his head and the taste was in his throat again; he'd puked that night and he could taste it again, and he was so hot he couldn't breathe couldn't move couldn't stop it cold hand on his, voice talking to him…

He finally forced his eyes to meet Mr. James' calm brown eyes, his hand giving Clint something to focus on physically. "Mr. Barton, I need you to calm down. You don't have to describe what you saw; please just tell us what happened." He nodded, but it took him a while to get his lungs to work again. He swallowed and dashed the moisture from his eyes.

"I see Jacques sitting at a table, drinking and counting money, while Carson is dead right there. I should have done something else, I know, but I just couldn't think. I yelled something and I went after him. He pushes his chair back and grabs this baseball bat that was sitting on the table. I see it's got blood all over it, then I'm fighting Jacques. I fight him best I can, but he's a swordsman, he's a got a swing that hits like a Mack truck. I try to get the bat from him, and we end up wrestling for it a bit. I almost get it, but Buck comes in and kicks me in the back of a knee, so I go down. Jacques punches with the handle of the bat, gets me in the jaw and I go down. I've been in fights before, ground ain't a place you want to be, so I get back up. My head's ringing and it's like I can't really get my arms to do what I want. He gets me in the ribs and I'm back on the ground again."

He realizes that he's holding his ribs, the ache still fresh in his mind after all these years. He straightens up and looks at his attorney. "I realize they're gone. They've left me behind, with…Carson, with…" His voice drops off to a near whisper. "With Carson's body."

Mr. James quietly asked "What did you do?"

"Carson's dead, I knew that as soon as I saw him. The blood on him is already dried. So I ran."

"Why did you run, Clint?"

"Everyone at the circus knows we were arguin'. And he's got, he's got my arrows in him. I know how this goes. Who's gonna believe me, that it wasn't me? That Buck, who's been gone for years, came back only no one saw him? I got scared and I ran. I left him there, and that's one of the worst things I've ever done. I regret that to this day."

After Mr. James sat down, the prosecutor stood up. Clint shifted nervously. They had maybe, _maybe _gotten some of the jury on their side. This guy was going to try to destroy the gains they had made. "Mr. Barton, you said you were looking for Mr. Carson because you needed to talk to him. What did you need to talk to him about?"

Grizzie had already told the jury about the argument. He couldn't deny it. He kept his voice steady. "I didn't think he'd been giving us our fair cut of the pay."

The prosecutor came back accusingly, "Were you angry?"

"Sure. Needed the money to eat." Clint couldn't keep the emotion completely out of his voice completely. "But I wasn't angry enough to kill him."

"A lot of the people at the circus say otherwise. They say you threatened him."

He flushed. "Anyone said that is lying! We talked in the morning, right after breakfast, but then the animal cops showed up and he had to deal with that. I told him we weren't done, that we were gonna talk more later. That was all I meant." A trickle of sweat started down his back.

"This wasn't the first time you and Carson had argued over money." That had Dennis written all over it. God damn little motorcycle riding snitch. As if he'd never argued about money. Hell, he'd pulled a knife on Kurt the Strong Man once when Kurt tried to welch on a bet.

"Everyone argued with him over money. You telling me you never had an argument about money with someone?" Clint heard someone chuckle. Point.

"I'm not the one here for a second murder trial after being convicted at the first one." And just that quickly, the ball was back in the prosecutor's possession. Fuck. "You said you went into his office."

"Yeah, I was looking for him." Clint kept his hands below the railing, hoping the posts holding it up would hide how he kept clenching and unclenching them. He had an idea where this was going.

"His office was padlocked from the outside. There was no way he was inside it. Why did you go inside his office?" Clint didn't let his sigh out, held it in. Either someone had a talked a _lot_ more than the prosecutor had let on, or he had spoken to enough people to get an idea of how Carson worked, and was just guessing. He looked over at his defender, who gave him a small nod to continue on. They'd talked about the fact that taking the 5th made the jury assume you were guilty. They'd avoid it as long as possible.

Deep breath. "I was gonna get my money that he owed me." He was proud of the fact that his voice held steady.

"So you admit that you were planning to steal from him." dammit dammit DAMMIT.

"We'd been playing packed shows, but the money wasn't going up. Things didn't add up. We were putting in a lot of extra work, skimping on set up and tear down days so we could fit in extra days of shows. We were losing down time, getting tired. Accidents were starting to happen. And we wasn't getting any more money than last year. Carson said costs had gone up, but it just didn't feel right. One or two people had seen some paperwork, but most of us hadn't. A lot of us were upset that we weren't getting our fair cut. We had all talked about getting the money and sharing it out."

"But you were the one that was acting upon that. You were the one going after the money that you thought he was stealing from you."

"People knew I had a history with Carson. I respected him."

"That's not what the earlier witness said. She said she heard you yelling at him, using some rather strong language."

"You probably figured this out already, but I ain't exactly college educated. I got a temper, I cuss a lot. I cuss at a lot of stuff. Cussed at this tie this mornin', don't mean I'm planning to kill it." Another snicker. He didn't delude himself that this meant he was winning this fight, though.

"So a lot of people were mad at him, but only you were heard arguing with him. A lot of people wanted money, but only you broke into his office. A lot of people thought he was stealing from them, but only your fingerprints were found at the murder scene."

"I wasn't the only one there." Sweat dripped down into his eyes, making them sting. He angrily swiped his arm across his face, dirtying his sleeve.

"Fingerprints say you were."

"They must have had gloves or something! Yeah, I was mad at him, but I wasn't the only one."

The prosecutor interrupted him, "You were the only one that used a bow. He had a lot of injuries, had been horribly tortured, but in the end, Jeremy Carson was killed with arrows."

"Buck killed him, not me."

"So you expect us to believe that someone who hadn't been seen with the carnival for two years came back, lured Mr. Carson into an abandoned restaurant, tortured him, and then snuck into his office, opened the safe and stole all of the money in it, then went back to the scene of the murder, all the while keeping out of sight of the 60 odd people that worked in the carnival. Meanwhile you, who had a very public argument with him, and had easy access to the office and safe, as well as to the sort of weapon that killed Mr. Carson, well, we are to believe that you were framed."

"I told you, we were all distracted with the animal cops and lookin' for Pokey. The zebra, that was the zebra." Clint winced at his slip. That _had_ been the zebra's name, but it really didn't help to make him seem more truthful. It made things seem like a joke.

The prosecutor's voice dripped with sarcasm. "You were looking for Pokey. You had a key to the zebra pen, didn't you?"

Clint nodded.

"Who else did?"

Clint clenched his jaw. "No one else did. But Buck knew how to pick locks. He coulda done it, easy."

"And how do you know that he knew how to pick locks?"

Fuck. He was damned if he did, and damned if he didn't. The prosecutor repeated his question. Clint ground out the answer. "Because he taught me how to do it."

The prosecutor smiled. Clint's heart was twisting itself into knots. "So you, who had nothing to do with the distractions around the circus all day, you who admitted that you thought Carson would be easy to take in a fight, who was arguing publicly with him, who could pick the locks on his trailer and office _and_ who used the style of weapon and the very arrows that killed him, you were innocently looking for Pokey. While the only man who had ever helped you, according to your own testimony, fought and suffered and died. Your Honor, I have no further need of this witness."

This time, the jury deliberated for six hours before returning with a guilty verdict and a recommendation for the death penalty, due to the nature of Jeremy Carson's death. It took every ounce of self control Clint had not to puke in the courtroom.

A few weeks later, the judge upheld the jury's recommendation, and sentenced him to death. He'd thought he'd been numb before. He was wrong.

For the first time, the legal system started to work quickly. He was processed and out of the jail he'd been at, and on a bus so quickly he had no time to deal with what was happening to him. The ride in the bus seemed to take no time at all, and he was dragged off of it, fully shackled, and pushed into the prison that was going to be his home for the rest of his life.

The door shut behind him as he shuffled into the processing room. Within a matter of minutes, he was handed a uniform and slippers and told to change. The shackles meant that he couldn't do that on his own; he had to let the guards in his personal space, he had to allow them to touch him. He could have fought, sure, but he was more than aware of the fact that in the end, he _would_ be out of his clothes and he _would_ be in the prison jumpsuit. The only difference would be how many new bruises he acquired before he got that way. Easier just to do what they wanted. Afterwards, he was instructed in the rules that would govern the rest of his life.

"Each death row inmate has a solitary cell. Meals are served at the front of the cell. If you request religious services, they are provided at the front of the cell. You are allowed two books from the library every two weeks. Books are delivered to the front of the cell. Medications are administered at the front of the cell. If medical care is necessary, you will wait while the rest of the prison is put on lockdown. You will be fully shackled before being escorted to the clinic. Do not waste our time with frivolous claims. Showers are solitary, three times a week. Exercise is solitary, three times a week, for two hours, in a secured yard. Allowed visits are infrequent, due to the necessity of putting the entire facility on lockdown when death row inmates are being moved. Visits for death row inmates are no contact. Death row inmates have no contact with other inmates, including other inmates on death row."

The man looked him in the eyes. "The average length of stay before execution is 17 years. I suggest you avoid making those years any harder than they're already going to be."

With that, he was jerked to his feet and pushed down the many corridors to his cell. Two of the guards held his hands behind his back while a third unlocked the chains. The others stood back, in case Clint decided to fight. He couldn't bring himself to take the two steps necessary to enter the cell that now encompassed his entire world, so the guards shoved him. The door slammed shut and he could hear the lock closing. That was the moment that he finally lost the control that he'd barely been managing to maintain. The walls crashed in, smothering him. This was it.

For the first time in decades, Clint Barton cried himself hoarse, hugging his knees to his chest throughout the long, sleepless night. Everyone he'd ever thought he could trust, thought he could depend on, had thrown him away. Now all of society had done the same.

Thrown him away like the trash he was.


	4. Visitation

The Archer Chapter 4 Visitation

A/N see end notes for warnings

Bernard looked around the empty room as he followed the corrections officer into the visitation area. Despite their footfalls, silence filled the corners of the sterile space. He was led to the booth and sat on the built in metal stool, staring at walls painted the same green that most institutional facilities seemed to be painted, as if lichen covered the walls. He remembered that color all too well. It had always made him feel as if he was being brought somewhere to be forgotten, pushed into a place where no one would ever come looking for him. He and Clint had talked, whispered nervously, when they had first started waiting outside offices, and endlessly walking the hallways of places such as this. But after the Linders had him removed, Clint had stopped whispering with Bernard in the hallways and offices. Bernard had ended up just holding his little brother's hand a lot.

He remembered that as he placed his clasped hands on the countertop, facing the glass partition as he waited, remembered that smaller hand in his. The guard had explained that the prison had to be on lockdown to allow the…God, it hurt to even think it, the Death Row inmates to be moved.

Be moved. As if his brother were some inanimate object, some dangerous thing, that couldn't be trusted to move himself. Something that had be hauled around. Tears made his vision blurry, the harsh lights turning into starburst patterns, like headlights on a windshield on a rainy night. He let himself drift a bit, mental pictures of their childhood flickering across his sight. Fireflies on a warm summer evening as Clint laughed. Bottle caps and broken glass littering the packed dirt of their yard as he taught Clint to snap nickels at bottles.

Far too quickly the memories turned darker. Scrapes and bruises on his brother's skinny arms and legs from climbing trees and running through woods, to get away from their father. Some of the bruises were from days and nights when Clint wasn't fast enough. Their old man had always been harder on Clint than on Bernard. Scars on a shaved head as Bernard and their new foster parents arrived to pick him up on the day he was released from the hospital. A snot covered sleeve that kept bumping his arm during the car ride away from the Linder's after Clint's attacks on Jason. Clint had refused to cry until after the social worker's car had pulled away from the curb, then he'd broken down, clinging to Bernard. But the tears had been silent, even when his little body jerked with gasping sobs, the uneven sound of his breaths the only noises. After that, he kept seeing Clint's torn, second hand duffel bag that he refused to unpack at the two temporary homes they were placed in.

He sank deeper into his memories.

After two temporary homes, they had finally been given a long term placement with another family that was "experienced in helping troubled boys" as their case manager told them. The Garcias were from Cuba, and Mrs. Garcia had a heavy accent. It was tough for Bernard to understand them, and Clint just clammed up, crossed his arms over his chest and radiated anger for the rest of the introductions.

They were given a room to share, which they were pretty used to. Bernard started to unpack, but Clint refused. "They ain't gonna keep us. What do they want with some white boys?"

Bernard tried to hush him. "Can you _please _try not to mess this up already, Clint?"

Clint scowled at him. "Old Man said not to trust…" he started, before his brother interrupted him.

"Yeah, well the Old Man was pretty dumb, so I don't think he was the best person to listen to. How about you don't hate these people unless they give you a reason to?"

Clint just sat on the bed and said resignedly "They will."

Bernard sat down next to him. "Please, try to get along. Try to make them like us."

Clint looked over at him, a hardened expression on his face. "They ain't gonna adopt us, Barney. You know that, right? No one thinks we're worth keeping, Barney. No one wants us. They didn't take us because they like us. They did it because they get paid for us."

"Between the food you eat and getting you new clothes, you cost way more than they get for you!" Bernard had laughed, and grabbed him in a head lock. That turned into noogies and that turned into wrestling before Mr. Garcia came upstairs to see what all the noise was.

Dinner that night was black beans and yellow rice and some sort of tomato and onion salad that went on top. Bernard and Clint ate all of their food, but it was very different from anything they'd ever had and Clint grumbled about macaroni and cheese. Bernard kicked him under the table until he subsided.

That night, when they were supposed to getting to sleep, Clint climbed down from his bunk onto Bernard's. "We could run away."

Bernard hit him with a pillow. "Don't be stupid. We'd need money. There's no way a fourteen year old and a ten year old are getting jobs."

"Don't have to get jobs. We could steal."

Bernard scoffed and hit him with a pillow. "Go to bed, you idiot. We have to get registered for school again in the morning, and you know how long that takes."

Clint sighed and climbed back up, but his voice came down from the top bunk. "I could do it."

Things had been normal for the next day, as normal as any first day at a new school could be, especially when it was your fourth school in the same year, and the next day too. But late that night, there was a loud knock at the door, and then angry voices. Bernard pulled himself up to look in Clint's bed, but it was empty. He crept downstairs and sure enough, there was Clint, in handcuffs, in the living room, with the Garcias and two police officers.

"Why would you steal our car?" Mr. Garcia asked him, but Clint just stare sullenly at the floor. He didn't say a word throughout the chewing out by the cops, or the lecture by Mr. Garcia, or Mrs. Garcia's pointed discussion in Spanish with her husband. When they were finally back in their room, Bernard climbed up into Clint's bunk and asked him "What the hell were you thinking?"

"I was just makin' sure I still remembered how to hot wire a car. And I did, so I wanted to see if I could drive one yet, and this time I could mostly see over the steering wheel, and I was just going around the block but the cops were there and they started chasin' me and I crashed the car."

Bernard stared at him in shock. "It's our third night here and you stole their car and crashed it. You are such a dumb shit."

That had been something their Old Man had called Clint all the time. It hit harder than Bernard had expected it to, and so did Clint. He hauled off and launched himself at his big brother, almost knocking them both off of the top bunk. Bernard grabbed his arm and then hung on for dear life as his little brother lost it, swinging wildly.

They knew how to fight without yelling because it had been drummed into them for their entire lives, but the bed banged against the wall and thumped and sure enough, Mr. Garcia showed up again.

"Boys, that is enough for one night. Barney, you come sleep on the couch."

"Mr. Garcia, that's not fair! Clint's the one that crashed the car!"

"I know. But I do not think Clint will move. He is angry, and his anger is not allowing him to think clearly. So for tonight, it is you I am asking to move." He helped Bernard to get a pillow and a blanket, and settled him on the couch.

Clint didn't talk to him that morning as they ate their scrambled eggs and toast and milky coffee, that Bernard was starting to like. He didn't talk during the rest of the morning. But when they were finally alone at the bus stop, it started up again.

"I bet they got jewelry. We could grab that, pawn it and be out of here," Clint said in a quiet voice.

"Oh my God, are you really that dumb? Will you leave it alone, you good for nothing screw up?" Bernard had yelled back. It was true, that family knew how to hurt you more than anyone else. He'd found the old wounds their father had inflicted, and he'd struck right for that weakness.

Clint stared up at him with an expression Bernard had seen often enough, but never directed at him. In a voice shaking with anger, Clint had replied "I hate your guts, Barney, swear to God I do." His little hands were clenched into fists, and he retreated into silence until the bus arrived. At the door to the school, they'd gone their separate ways.

It was the last time he had ever seen his brother.

Bernard shivered even though the stagnant air in the visiting room was barely cooler than that outside. Their father had been dead for years, and yet he had lived on in those moments, as the Barton boys parroted his words to each other. He would have given anything to be able to take those words back.

As bad as things had been before, they'd always had each other. Bernard hadn't realized how much he had depended on Clint and his stupid, silly sense of humor at the worst of times, to cheer him up and stop him from sinking too far into his thoughts. Now he was truly alone. There was no little hand to hold in his own, no one to be brave for, no to hold onto during the long, lonely nights, when he could pretend that he was comforting Clint. He never admitted to anyone other than himself that many nights, he was the one who needed the comfort.

Even after he'd been adopted, he always kept an extra pillow on his bed and, hidden under the mattress, a torn up comic book that Clint had found somewhere and managed to keep hold of through three foster homes. That same comic book was in a box in his home office, along with six photos. Those seven things were the only proof Bernard had, that his brother had been real.

He'd tried to look for Clint, but he'd been fifteen, with no idea how to look for someone, still trying to figure out himself. The social workers wouldn't tell him where Clint had been placed, and his adoptive parents had been powerless when it came to a child they hadn't adopted. That had been a large part of what had driven him into the field he had chosen – he wanted to know how to find people, how to track someone you had lost.

But he'd always run into dead ends. The group home was closed down after the death of the proprietor. The man's wife had moved out of state and unofficially went by her maiden name. A legal name change would have left a paper trail, but she'd moved out to a small town in Wyoming and simply told people a different name.

A splash of orange color snapped him out of his memories as Clint was led in, his hands cuffed to a chain around his waist, another leading down to his chained ankles. The guards brusquely sat him down on his stool, then secured him in his side of the booth before admonishing him. Clint only nodded. Bernard picked up the phone on his side of the booth and waited, while Clint slowly did the same, eventually lifting his eyes to glance up at Bernard. Bernard forced his face to keep an even expression even as his gut twisted.

"Guess what? Chickenbutt." He grinned at his kid brother through the glass.

Their old childhood nonsense startled a short laugh out of Clint, who finally really looked at him. The humor was short lived though, and Clint looked down, shifted in his seat.

"Hey Barney."

"I'm sorry it's been so long, Clint. I got sent out of the country on an assignment."

"S'okay." Clint's voice was calm and low, steady, and Bernard didn't believe it for a second. They fell into an uncomfortable silence as Clint sank down, his shoulders pulling in. "I screwed up, Barney. I screwed up big."

He sighed and scrubbed his hand through his hair. "I know, Clint."

Clint laughed humorlessly, then there was another long moment of silence before he quietly confessed "I'm scared, Barney."

Barney tried desperately to keep the tears out of his eyes. "I know, Clint. I am too."

They sat in silence for what seemed like a long time.

"If I ask my friend to come talk to you, would you do it?"

Clint sat, emotions playing over his face.

Bernard begged "Please Clint. Please do this."

Clint stared at him for a long time, then nodded and rubbed one hand over his face tiredly, his movements made awkward by the cuffs and the need to hold onto the phone. "Yeah, okay. Won't be the first time I've whored myself out to save my skin."

Bernard winced, hoping… "He's a good guy, okay, Clint? Trust him."

"Ain't makin' any promises." His voice carried the echoes of other chances that likely hadn't done him any good, given where he had ended up. Clint didn't seem like he had much trust left in him.

Their conversation stuttered off and on, until at last the corrections officer came back into the booth. Clint looked over his shoulder at the guard, then back at him and moved to put the phone back.

"WAIT!" Bernard was quick to add in his last thought. "I love you, brother. Always have, always will."

Clint twisted one side of his mouth up, then put the phone away and got to his feet as the guard pulled him up by his arm. He shuffled out, never looking back.

Because he was alone in his office, Coulson allowed himself the luxury of pinching the bridge of his nose and tried to rub away the developing headache.

"Bernard, there's really nothing I can do. This is a one time offer. He refused."

"But there's no good reason why it has to be like that. He was good enough to be offered a job. He's still fully capable of doing that job. He'd just been through who knows what, and he made a bad snap decision."

"We need people who are capable of making snap decisions that are the right ones."

"He was scared, hurting, hungry…for God's sake, we were the ones hunting him for weeks! We put him in the position where he was caught!"

"He killed people, Bernard. For money. That was the reason he ended up in a Turkish dungeon. If I knew for a fact that he acknowledged that he was wrong, that he wanted to change, I could work with that, but I can't help someone who doesn't want it."

"He does, Phil."

"A lot of people get sorry when they get caught. I need more than that."

Bernard's voice sounded thick, as if he were holding back tears.

"I let him down, Phil, I abandoned him. Dad never liked him, used to tell him it was his fault that we were poor. He hit both of us, but he always had it out for Clint more than me, said that Clint wasn't even his son. Clint thought the foster parents had him removed because something was wrong with him. The head of the orphanage that was supposed to take care of him … molested him. His mentor in the circus set him up to take the blame for murdering the only person he feels cared for him." Bernard gave a bitter laugh. "Carson let an eleven year old boy sleep on the ground and made him work to earn his food, and Clint practically worships him for it. Clint doesn't have a single good reason to trust anyone, to see good in anyone, but he still saved your agent in Sofia. I've looked into his hits, and I can't find a single time when he killed an innocent person. You emptied his bank account; you tell me that he was taking indiscriminate contracts."

Phil replied quietly "He killed sixteen people for AIM."

Bernard's voice was emphatic "Dig deeper. Something was going on there."

Coulson was silent for a long time, weighing his options. Bernard was equally silent.

Bernard finally spoke again. "I can't find any record that Clint was in school after the Garcias. He was never…" he sighed, and Coulson could hear him swallowing. "I'm being honest with you, Phil. Clint isn't the brightest kid. They wanted to hold him back in kindergarten, because he had so many problems with his letters and colors and stuff like that. Start there, and then add in the fact that he bounced around from school to school and dropped out when he was ten."

"Not helping your case, Bernard."

"He's got a third grade education at best, but he eluded the FBI and Interpol for years. YEARS, Phil. It took us working together, it took the FBI and SHIELD putting aside interdepartmental battles and joining up to bring him down. Imagine what he'll be able to do with some training."

Phil gave a small smile. "You make a convincing argument. I'll talk to the Director, but I can't guarantee any miracles."

The relief was evident in Bernard's voice. "I owe you a solid, Phil."

It took some doing, and a mountain of data collected over many sleepless nights, but Coulson convinced Fury to let him try one more time. Arranging the visit took even more time, and by the time Phil finally arrived at the Browning Unit, he was hoping this wasn't a colossal waste of time.

After being escorted to the empty visiting room, he sat calmly on his side of the visitation booth, patiently waiting. After a while, the guard escorted the prisoner in, almost threw him onto the stool, and quickly secured him. Bernard's brother didn't exactly fight, but he tensed enough to turn all of his movements into a resistance. Agent Coulson knew that sort of powerplay wasn't going to make life any easier on him after this visit was over. Then again, he knew that there wasn't much that death row inmates had to lose, so they often lashed out. In comparison, the archer was being fairly subdued, fighting back more out of habit or stubbornness than to make a point.

The inmate reached for the phone on his side of the booth, his hands cuffed together, as he glared through the glass at Coulson. "Took you long enough."

"This wasn't an easy thing to arrange. My Director still isn't certain about you, but I've talked him into taking a risk on you."

The blond snorted a humorless laugh, then got to the point. "Barney wants me to talk to you. Why should I trust you?"

"You have no reason to trust me. I hope to reach that point with you, but it certainly won't happen today. What I want you to do today is to remember exactly what I've done for you."

"You hunted me down and got me thrown in here."

Coulson nodded. "You had to know that that was going to happen, given your former profession. You were good enough to elude several different agencies, so eventually we teamed up. Yes, I headed the team that caught you. I'm also the person that unchained you and got the rats off of you. I'm the person that saw that you received medical treatment and food. I'm the person that gave you an offer that would have kept you from this place."

Phil continued, "Mr. Barton, I'm going to get right to the point. I've known your brother for close to a decade. He tells me that while he hasn't had contact with you in many years, the brother he knew as a child had a strong moral code. It didn't always align with the law, but it was a strongly held one. He believes that you kept that as a man. I believe that moral code was what caused you to save the life of our agent in Sofia. You had every opportunity to kill her, and we both know you've taken contracts on women. Yet this one you didn't kill, even when you knew it might cost you."

"Kid shouldn't grow up without a mother."

Coulson nodded. "You showed concern for a child you've never met. That leads me to agree with your brother, and that is why I am here to repeat my offer. We can use a man with your skills."

The archer stared at him for a long time. Coulson had been stared at by the best, and worked with snipers on a regular basis. The inmate wasn't going to intimidate him. He put on his most bland face and waited.

"I did some work for big groups. Didn't much like it."

Coulson nodded. "We know that you had some involvement with AIM."

Another laugh, although this one sounded bitter. "Yeah, involvement, that makes it sound all nice and shit, don't it."

Phil raised an eyebrow. "Are you saying that you were coerced?"

"They wanted me to kill someone. I said no. So they took a hammer to my feet until I said yes."

Years of training and experience with the worst that humans could do to each other kept Coulson's face neutral. "If that can be verified, no one will fault you for that. And I assure you that our methods are far different. If you felt that a kill order was unjustified, you would have the right to refuse."

"And if I do?"

Agent Coulson didn't react, but did notice Barton's verb choices. Not a hypothetical 'did' but 'do' instead, implying he was starting to seriously consider the offer. "It will go back for review. Most probably it will be issued to another agent, but in rare cases it will be rescinded."

"That happen often?"

"I see one case like that every few years. It's rare for our agents to refuse; before they ever enter the field they get all the information our Intel department can send them. Kill orders are only issued after a long period of data gathering and consideration."

"So say I take you up on this. What, you keep me here until you need to take me out on a leash? You want me to trade this cell for another one?"

"No, Mr. Barton. You would be released into our custody. You would train with our agents, live on base like many of them do. As you gained our trust, you would earn greater freedom. When you were ready, you would be assigned a handler and be given missions, missions that could change the world."

"Still want me to kill people."

"Violence shouldn't be the first option, but there are times when it is the only option. We send soldiers into battle, knowing that some will die. I'm asking you to be a surgical knife, eliminating one person, one threat, in order to save large numbers of lives."

"You're making murder sound all pretty," the archer sneered.

"I don't take my responsibilities lightly. The ending of a life is a serious matter that should be considered very thoroughly. But when I tell my specialists to take the shot, I rest assured that the matter has been well examined, and that many people including my specialist and myself have all determined that this is the best course of action."

The inmate stared at him for a good while. Coulson waited him out. He saw the moment when the younger man's shoulders slumped and the aggression disappeared, to be replaced by a different tension that looked, in large part, to be made up of fear.

"Don't really have a choice, do I?"

"Mr. Barton, you always have a choice. The question is, do you want to live with the consequences of those choices?"

The inmate was silent for a long moment, then said in a voice dulled by exhaustion and resignation. "I'll do it."

Coulson nodded. "Welcome to S.H.I.E.L.D., Mr. Barton."

A/N More than likely inaccuracies of the foster system. Mention of (past) child abuse, both physical and emotional. Ignorant, racist remarks from Clint, who doesn't know any better yet. Clint and Bernard were raised by a man that was Not A Good Person.


	5. Welcome to SHIELD

Chapter 5 Welcome to SHIELD

Coulson wasn't there for Clint's transfer from prison or for his heavily guarded trip across country, but he was there to greet the Archer when he arrived at SHIELD's training facility well after sundown on a Tuesday evening, wearing a prison issue uniform as well as chains around his tattooed arms. Phil watched, resting his casted arm, as the marshals unlocked the shackles and handcuffs.

"Welcome to SHIELD," he said, giving just a hint of a smile and a nod of his head. "Please forgive me for not shaking your hand."

The blond looked at the agent, slowly rubbing his hands over his now-bare wrists. "Broken arms suck."

Coulson inclined his head. "Indeed." He turned towards the marshals and handed them the tracking ankle bracelet SHIELD and the federal government were both requiring. "Gentlemen, if one of you would be so kind."

The taller of the two came forward, took the anklet and fastened it around the leg of the former inmate, who stood quietly through the procedure. Barton wasn't truly being released from prison, so much as he was on loan from the prison system. If he didn't work out, he'd be sent back, to resume his waiting for execution. Coulson wasn't certain that this experiment would work, but he acknowledged that they had quite a bit of leverage to use against possible bad behavior.

The marshal checked the anklet one more time, then held a clipboard for Phil to sign some paperwork before turning back towards the armored transport vehicle. Coulson turned towards his newest probationary agent. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to meet you sooner, but between the operation I was supervising, my injury, time in medical and the debriefing, I've only just become available."

"Saving the world from the bad guys like me, huh?"

Phil gave a brief frown. "Something like that." Coulson made a mental note to follow up on that comment later, after Barton had had time to adjust to SHIELD. "If you'll follow me, we'll get the paperwork finished, pick up your supplies and I'll show you to your quarters. I'm sure you must be tired after your journey."

He turned and started walking, hearing the younger man follow him with short, shuffling steps, almost as if he were still shackled. Years of muscle memory were going to take time to overcome.

"Didn't mind it. Most excitement I've had in years."

Coulson didn't doubt it. The former inmate had spent almost two years of his life locked into a cell that was 11 feet 7 inches long by 8 feet 7 inches wide, about the size of a parking space. He was allowed out of the cell for less than seven hours a week. His only contact with people was in the form of armed guards who always restrained him, outnumbered him, and used force as a matter of course. Coulson easily deduced that Barton hadn't been touched, skin to skin, in years.

Add that to a mother who died early, an abusive father, an abusive group home director and being framed for the murder of his only positive male role model – well, it all added up to more issues than three average recruits. Coulson didn't normally handle recruits and probationary agents; he was taking this one solely out of his friendship with Bernard. And he could already feel another headache coming on. He just hoped that they were able to salvage something from this, especially if the younger Barton really thought of himself as a bad person. Problems on top of issues.

They finally reached Coulson's office, where he motioned for the silent man to sit in one of the chairs. "Given the lateness of the hour, I've taken the liberty of filling out most of the forms ahead of time to streamline this process. I just need your signature on all of the places highlighted in yellow. "

He wasn't going to point out that reading and attempting to understand the forms was going to be frustrating to someone with limited reading skills. But it looked like the (former?) assassin saw through him. His blue eyes stared at Phil through his shaggy blond hair, a muscle in his jaw jumping for a long moment before he took the pen and started scanning over the first document. He signed in blocky print, examined the paper again, and then turned to the next page.

There were a few false starts and some missed signature lines, which Phil pointed out with endless patience despite them being clearly marked in brilliant yellow, but eventually everything was signed, dated and official. Phil neatly filed everything that he would keep and placed the other forms into a folder in his outbox on his desk before he stood.

Most recruits arrived with at least one duffle bag of possessions, but the man before him didn't even have any civilian clothes. He stood quickly as Coulson came out from behind his desk. "Let's get you what you need and get you settled in."

Phil led the way to the commissary and opened the door with his key card. Once inside, he quickly picked out pants, shorts, boxer briefs and socks, along with a pair of tactical boots. The boots made Phil remember a prison conversation and a note in the prison file – he'd have to have Medical look at the man's feet.

A toothbrush, a pack of disposable razors, shampoo and soap rounded out the acquisitions, which he boxed up and handed to the probationary agent, who for all of his earlier comments was starting to flag. Phil led the way out into the hallway and locked the door again.

"You always in charge of shit like this?"

"No, but it's well after hours and I want you as kitted out as our other recruits," Coulson explained as he led the way to the quarters that had been assigned to Barton. The men walked in silence for some time before the archer spoke again.

"This is all because of Barney, isn't it?"

"He was a large part of it. We were interested in you after Sofia, but you turned us down. That's usually a one-time offer. Bernard was rather insistent." There was a soft exhalation behind him and Coulson suspected that he knew the thought process behind it. Better to get this stopped before it built up a head of steam.

He stopped walking and turned to face the blond. "Your ability to think on your feet, make quick decisions, and your skills with your bow, are still what interested us in you. You are here on your own merit. Bernard simply asked me to look at you as a possibility a second time."

Clint looked thoughtful at that, but said nothing. Coulson turned and continued their slow walk until he reached the trainee quarters and stopped outside of room 391. "I wasn't certain if you would want to share a room. We have three dormitory halls. In two of them, agents in training share two to a bedroom, with two bedrooms sharing a living room and bathroom. This hall has single rooms but you share bathrooms down the hallway." He pointed out the location of the nearest bathroom.

"If you want to be reassigned to a different room at any time, let me know and I'll see to it. You have your medical intake exam at 0700. They generally need to do bloodwork, which requires that you fast, but I'll take you down to the cafeteria afterwards for breakfast, if that is agreeable to you."

The archer blinked twice then replied rapidly, "Uh, yeah. Yeah."

Coulson nodded. "I'll meet you here at 0645, then. Have a good night, Agent-in-Training Barton." With that, Coulson turned and left his charge, still standing in the doorway. He looked more than a little lost, but Phil had a strong suspicion that any coddling on his part would backfire. The man had lived through much worse; he could get himself settled for the night. And it was far past time for Coulson to do the same. Looked like the couch in his office was going to serve as his bed again.

Phil didn't get eight hours of sleep that night, but he did get enough to be functional in the morning. A quick shower in the gym locker room and a change of clothes (he always had a spare suit in his office) later, he was knocking on A-i-T Barton's door at precisely 6:45 the next morning. The door opened quickly and Barton stepped out, dressed in his SHIELD gear. Coulson nodded, he nodded, and they both set out to Medical.

Coulson dropped his charge off with the duty nurse, and headed straight to the office of Dr. Wilson, head of the Psych department. He knocked once and waited a brief moment before a voice inside called out "Come in!"

Dr. Wilson was already coming from behind his desk, and he greeted Phil with a warm smile and a firm handshake. "What's got that wrinkle in your forehead this early, Phil? Have a seat!" He gestured to a seating area with a couch and two chairs, sinking into one himself as Coulson took the other.

Phil fought the urge to rub away the offending wrinkle and instead replied "I need to know how to handle this one."

Ben immediately sat back, putting one ankle across the other knee. "The Archer, huh? I heard he arrived last night."

Phil nodded. "He did, and I got his paperwork done, got him some clothes and supplies and got him in his room."

"He didn't have anything with him?"

"No, he was wearing a prison jumpsuit."

Ben frowned. "He didn't get his possessions released to him?"

Phil shook his head No. "He didn't have any at intake. The clothes he was wearing when we caught him, we ended up burning what was left of those after Medical cut them off."

"We're certainly no strangers to people using SHIELD to start over, but that's taking things to more of an extreme than we usually deal with. Tough to start over that completely."

"I don't think that is going to be the issue. He's going to have a hell of a time adjusting to life here at SHIELD. He's jumpy at noises, crowds, quick movements..."

"Again, we're no strangers to that."

"At least the others are here willingly."

"You asked him, didn't you? He agreed."

"Yes, Ben, but look at the alternative. It wasn't much of a choice."

"You feel that he was coerced, and you're feeling guilty that you were part of it?"

Phil sighed. "I think so. How cruel is it going to be if this doesn't work, and we ship him back? How can we justify raising his hopes like that?"

Ben's voice was mild, without any tinge of rebuke, other than his words. "Let's give him a chance to fail before we start discussing the consequences of actions that he hasn't taken yet, shall we?"

"I…you're right, of course." Phil rubbed at that spot on his forehead that hurt. "It's just that I'm not at all certain how to make this work out, for him, for me, for us. How do I get the guy to even come in here, get him talking to you?"

Ben laughed. "That's my job, not yours. Besides, I have an idea." Phil arched an eyebrow as the doctor continued. "So he handled being moved cross country with no warning, being transferred into your custody, late night paperwork – how'd that go, by the way?"

"Third grade reading level was being optimistic."

Wilson nodded. "Guy gets put into a room just larger than his cell, walks the hallways this morning surrounded by dozens of strangers, and goes willingly to a medical exam minus the only person he knows. That's a stressful morning. Let's lighten his load. Cancel his eval here, I'll have my people keep an eye on him for a while, you too, his instructors. Any of you think he's getting hinky, you call me."

Phil nodded. Not having to bring Barton in for a psych eval would make his life much easier. Wilson continued. "Other than that, let's give him something familiar. Call in Borrs, Marek, Hlas, do his physical skill evals. Figure out where he fits in that. Once he's familiar with them, we start him in Current Events."

Absent mindedly, Phil corrected him, "Geopolitical Situations."

Ben chuckled. "Call it that and you'll never get Barton to set foot inside the classroom. Just call it Current Events like everyone else."

Phil conceded the point.

Ben continued. "You say his reading level is below our remedial classes?"

"He can print his name. I'll be surprised if he can write much more than that. Reading seems to be essentially non-existent. I'm guessing math is the same. If he's going to be a sniper, he's going to need both of those."

Wilson nodded. "Then we get it to him."

"How?"

Ben grinned. "We start with you, then once we get him to open up to others, we enlist them. We have an education department here. Use them."

"Okay. That actually helps a bit."

"I'm not making any guarantees. This might work, but the ball's in his court. I just want to make certain we give him a chance."

Phil turned a calculating look at the doctor. "You're a bit more supportive of this guy that I expected."

Dr. Wilson nodded. "I'm Kathleen's counselor. She's had a lot to say since Sofia."

Coulson nodded in understanding, then headed back to Medical.

Barton was apparently finished with his exam, not only fully dressed but laughing and talking with one of the orderlies in what appeared to be fluent Spanish. He jumped off of the examining table to his feet as soon as Coulson walked in the open door of the exam room.

"Ready for breakfast?" Coulson asked him, nodding at the orderly, who nodded back at him and smiled and waved at Barton before heading back to his duties.

Barton nodded and looked down at the cotton and adhesive bandages in the crook of each elbow. "Y'all feedin' vampires, or somethin'? Not sure I got any blood left."

"Our doctors are very thorough," Coulson replied as he started towards the cafeteria. "This will be the most thorough exam you should receive. You're scheduled for a dental exam tomorrow but we'll complete range and hand to hand evaluations today, if possible."

Barton nodded as he fell into step behind. "Had dentists in Arizona."

"Their solution seems to have been pulling any problem teeth." He glanced backwards to see the archer give a shrug.

"Not much sense in putting money into someone you're just gonna kill later."

"Since that is not our plan, our dentists will work with you." Coulson opened the doors to the cafeteria and waved Barton in. Just inside the door, Coulson stepped to the side to get both of them out of the way of anyone else coming through the door and explained the layout of the cafeteria.

"Hot line there, with eggs, pancakes, sausage, oatmeal, etc. Breads and pastries are on that line, and there's a cereal and fruit bar. Drinks are over there, coffee, juices, milk. Take as much as you want, just eat what you take. It's not the best food in the world, but it's filling and for agents in training, it's free. Later on, when you're pulling a salary, there will be a nominal charge to cover costs. Let's get our trays."

He led Barton to the trays, then he headed to the hot line, the younger man trailing behind him. Coulson filled a tray with eggs, sausage, a small bowl of oatmeal topped with nuts and dried apricots, and another small bowl full of melon pieces and grapes.

Looking slightly stunned, the former inmate followed him, making similar choices, although he put sugar on the oatmeal, skipped the apricots and chose canned peaches, along with an apple and a banana that was ripe enough to have black spots on it. Coulson filled a mug with coffee and hid a smile as Barton added enough coffee to color his sugar and cream.

They found a table without too much trouble although from the way the cafeteria was filling up it had been a close thing. 15 more minutes or so and they would have been firmly in the middle of the lunch rush.

Coulson had been certain to find a table where Barton could have his back covered. It wasn't perfect, since they were far from the only people who were jumpy enough to want their backs to a wall, and the best spots were taken, but it was the best he could do. Their table was against the wall but some of the sight lines were blocked. Still, it was better than putting them in the middle of the room.

The archer took a few bites of his food, then started wolfing it down but even that wasn't fast enough. As the noise level in the cafeteria rose, so did his anxiety, body tensing up. His expression was a bit more open than in Istanbul, as if he were out of practice in keeping his emotions in check. His eyes glanced nervously around, he started fidgeting and one foot was jogging up and down, rocking their table with the quick motions.

Before the noise could reach the threshold of the former inmate's ability to tolerate, Coulson stood up and gestured at Barton's tray. "Bring the rest if you want, you can always finish on your way to the range. I'll show you how to get there."

Pocketing the apple and banana, and grabbing the plastic bowl of oatmeal to eat on the go, he followed Coulson out of the door. Phil made certain to take them on a route that avoided major hallways and courtyards, any areas where people congregated. It took them a few minutes longer, but they arrived with plenty of time to spare.

After breakfast, Coulson brought him to the outdoor rifle range.

"Agent Borrs, we're here for a firearms evaluation." An older man, with steel grey hair and skin that looked like it had seen years of harsh sun, came over to them. He nodded at Barton and raised an eyebrow at Coulson's cast. Coulson gave a slight shrug and the older agent gave a short, barking laugh, then turned his attention to the younger man.

"So, whatcha here for?"

Coulson answered "Long distance work."

Borrs looked a bit interested. "Got a preference in rifles?"

Coulson turned to Barton and waited for an answer.

"Ain't used too many, just my old man's deer rifle, back when I was a kid. Mostly done bow hunting."

Borr's face grew calm, which Coulson knew was his "Oh I'm very interested but don't want to show it" face. "So you're the reason some bows have showed up at my range. Let's see what you do with them, then we'll move on to rifles and handguns after that."

He led the way to where all of the weapons were stored, and opened a silver case that had been stashed in a corner. In it were a curved bow, with the string laying coiled next to it, and a bow with pulleys and a very complicated string unlike anything Coulson had ever seen before.

Barton picked up the curved bow and ran his hands over it. He ran his thumb over the engraved bear on the middle portion of the bow and gave a low whistle. "Ain't never shot a Bear before." He looked at Coulson. "These are high."

"Excuse me?" Coulson suspected that the archer wasn't using the phrase to mean what Phil thought he did.

"The price, it's high. These ain't cheap."

"Neither are we. If you're going to be shooting for us, we want you to have quality equipment." Barton narrowed his eyes and looked at Coulson speculatively for a moment, before turning his attention to the other agent.

"Got a stringer?" he asked Borrs, who nodded and handed him a long cord with a leather pocket at one end and some rubber contraption on the other. Barton used it to quickly string the bow, making it look easy. He slipped the stinger off, scooped it off the ground with the toe of his boot, and flicked it through the air towards Borrs, who caught it with a slight smile and a nod of approval. Barton gave him a grin. Coulson was surprised at how much it made him resemble his older brother.

The archer pulled the string a few times, bending the bow a bit further each time but never releasing the string. "Lighter than I used to shoot."

Coulson nodded. "We had your old bow tested. I thought that since it was unlikely you had been able to practice for a while, there was a good chance you'd lost some of the muscle. I had these ordered in a considerably lighter weight. I was told that the one you are holding could be made stronger by ordering new …arms?"

"Limbs," Barton corrected. "Take downs are easy to do that with."

Borrs handed him a quiver of arrows. Barton slung the bow over his shoulder, pulled an arrow out and looked it over, bent it a bit and nodded at Coulson. He then put it to the string, pulled the string back and fired it down range, hitting the large archery target less than an inch from the center.

What made it all the more impressive is that he did it without taking his eyes off of the agent until the arrow hit. It wasn't until the distinctive THUNK sounded that he looked. And frowned. "Out of practice. I'll get better."

Phil's years of practice at keeping his face impassive were needed. "Do you often shoot without looking at your target?" 

Barton frowned at the question, "Target's in the same place it was when we walked in. Why do I need to look at it again?" There was a hint of exasperation in his voice, as if he had answered this question before.

"Do that again," Borrs asked.

Barton picked up a handful of arrows in his left hand and fired them all off within a few seconds, again never looking at the target. Phil was no expert on archery, but he'd seen his fair share of movies, from Errol Flynn's Robin Hood up to more modern films. Barton's style of shooting, his hand position on the string and his method of holding extra arrows in the same hand he pulled the string with and the sheer speed with which he sent arrows downrange, well it was nothing like anything Coulson had ever seen.

It was undeniable that the odd style worked, though. The arrows all hit within an inch of the first one, the last one hitting within seconds of the first one from the group. Barton frowned and cursed. "Give me a few days of practice. I'll get better."

Coulson heard the faint tones of desperation in his voice and reassured him "We understand that you're out of practice. We won't hold today's performance against you."

Borrs spoke up. "Why don't we do the rifle and handgun evals now, then you can have some time to get in some practice." The archer nodded, then walked downrange to collect his arrows.

Behind his back, Borrs gave Coulson an astonished look and whispered "What the _hell_?! That was faster than some guys I know with a pistol! And that's a fair grouping that he's apologizing for! Who the hell is this guy, the Archer?" Coulson just smiled. Borrs gaped, then wiped the expression off of his face as Barton started the walk back, his arrows in hand.

Borrs walked over and selected a rifle while the blond unstrung the bow and returned everything to their places, then they walked back to the 100m mark. "Take a few shots from prone, then kneeling, then standing."

Barton asked "Prone?"

"Laying down. You've never shot from that position?"

The archer shook his head. "Used to rest the rifle on the edge of the tree stand when I was standing, that's about all I'm used to."

Borrs nodded. "Okay then, let's reverse the order. Take some standing shots." Barton followed the directions and raised the rifle up, then took a shot. They all looked down range. "In the 7 ring, not bad." This went on for a while more, with Borrs giving minor corrections and advice in between Barton's shots, and the assassin listening fully, complying with the advice. The groupings consistently got smaller.

Borrs spoke up. "Let's try sitting. Put your butt on the ground, feet splayed and heels dug in. Rest the rifle on one knee." Barton complied and was quickly shooting again. Borrs shook his head. "You're flicking your finger forward. See how your shots are grouped at 11:00? Squeeze the trigger, but don't push your fingers forward."

The archer grunted and flexed his hand a few times. "The movements are reversed from archery. I'm used to pulling, tension, and then releasing my fingers for the shot."

"I don't think it will be a major problem in the long run. Short term, you'll have some muscle memory to get over, until you build new memories. This may get frustrating for a while, but you're already more than a decent shot. I think you're going to make a good sniper."

Borrs looked at Coulson, who nodded in confirmation. "Try again, but think about your finger this time, and don't be so quick to see where your shot landed. That tends to drop your shoulder." Barton nodded and turned his attention back to the target. Once again, his groupings started small and got more consistent as time and Borrs' instruction went on.

Finally Borrs had him lay down with the rifle nestled up close to his cheek. Once again, things progressed quickly with Barton listening attentively to Borrs' instruction. By the time Borrs put the rifle away, Barton was consistently shooting out the center of the target.

"We'll get you some more practice here before we put you in Marek's class. I don't think it's going to take you more than a week to catch up and be on a par with most of the students." Barton mostly succeeded at hiding a smile at that.

"Any experience with handguns?" The archer shook his head No. Borrs nodded. "Alright, we'll leave that for another day, then, after we get you more comfortable with a rifle." He looked at Coulson. "I want him to get at least an hour of practice a day with his bow and another with a rifle. Get that in his schedule."

"I'll make it happen," Coulson assured him. Borrs looked back at his new student. "You've got a busy day today. After today, you clean your rifle before you leave, but just this once I'll take care of it for you." He nodded at Coulson and then collected all of the gear while Coulson motioned for Barton to follow him.

"Where we headed to now?"

"Back inside, to one of our testing labs." He saw the tension return to the archer's body. "Everyone comes in weak in some areas, that's why we have a training facility. It's our job to find those areas and strengthen them."

"Look, I get why I need to learn rifles. But you want me to kill people, not run governments. I already know how to shoot."

"We rely on our agents to make informed decisions in the field. We want you to have all of the knowledge you need in order to make those decisions. This test will not be used to decide if you pass or fail, it honestly will be used solely to help us know what areas you need instruction in."

Barton clearly didn't believe him, and kept walking silently. Coulson took a deep breath and hoped this wasn't the minefield he was afraid it was going to be.

The testing went about as well as Coulson expected it to, which was to say it did not go well at all. Barton tested miserably in SHIELD's version of the vocational aptitude battery, even in sections that Coulson was pretty sure he excelled in.

He tested inept in mechanical work and engines, yet he'd been hotwiring cars since he was eight. In the Iowa prison, he had tuned up the lawn mowers and even helped fix a visitor's car that wouldn't start by talking the owner through the procedure while she worked on the engine and he stood behind the fence. He spoke Spanish well enough to talk and joke with bilingual staff members, but failed even the English fluency test.

Phil's math skills were excellent, and he could add one plus one. Barton had stopped attending school in the third grade, but his reading abilities had suffered in the many years since. He glanced at his clock - it was late enough that the lunch crowd should be thinned out.

"Barton, head to your room, get a full change of clothes in the small duffel bag we got for you last night. Your next eval will be close quarters combat, but we're headed to the cafeteria first."

"You give me this crap for hours, then food, then hand to hand? You're an asshole."

Phil gave him a bland smile. "The timing is unfortunate, however it was not intentional. Usually recruits come in at specific times, so we can test them all. You came in inbetween classes, and our instructors are having to fit you in where ever their schedules permit. I can contact Agent Hlas and try to reschedule."

"Naw, I feel like punching something, might as well get the chance to do it."

Coulson couldn't argue with his reasoning, so he took a route that took them past the building that held the gym, including the large room where Agent Hlas taught her classes on the days they were indoors. From there, it was a walk of a few minutes to reach the cafeteria.

Coulson took a chicken Caesar salad while the newcomer loaded up a plate with macaroni and cheese, a pre-made sandwich wrapped in plastic, a can of soda and an apple. He ate only the mac and cheese, pocketing the rest for later.

Phil made a mental note to watch that habit – Barton might be eating lightly to prepare for a physical class with a planned meal later, or he might be hoarding food. Coulson saw him on his way to the gym, then headed out on an errand while the newest agent in training was being tested yet again.

He made it back in time to talk with Agent Hlas while Clint showered. "He knows how to fight, that's obvious. What's equally obvious is that he's completely untrained. He seemed willing enough to learn, once I knocked him on his ass a few times and showed him that he didn't know nearly as much as he thought he did. If he remembers today's lesson he might do well." Phil nodded as she continued, "Didn't have to put up with any bullshit from him about listening to a female instructor, which was nice for once. He seems perfectly willing to take orders from a woman. He does have bad habits to unlearn, though."

"Do you think he'll be able to catch up enough to go into a regular class?"

Hlas shook her head. "He's got a _lot_ of catching up to do. Right now, we put with him people that've been through military, police, hell even civilian martial arts classes, he's going to revert back to what he knows." Hlas leveled a look at Coulson. "He's been in prison, hasn't he?"

Coulson nodded.

"Does he have a rep for fighting?"

Coulson nodded again.

The shorter agent continued. "I think, and this is a rough guess based just on what I saw today, I think he knows when to fight and when to shut up and walk away. I stressed it with him, and I think he's going to listen. But his fighting is all about quick and dirty – if he starts something here, he's going to go for a kill early, and this is the wrong crowd. He's going to get put down, hard, and then everyone's going to know that he went for a kill on a fellow agent. That's going to shut down his chances fast."

Phil agreed. "We've got some strong leverage to convince him to toe the line. I think he will. If he doesn't, he won't last long here."

"He needs to. He's got the look of someone who's on his last chance." Phil couldn't deny that. A short time later Barton emerged from the showers, looking a bit worse for wear and a bit contemplative but also looking considerably more relaxed than he had been after the testing earlier in the day.

"Back to my office. I've come up with a schedule for you, and I've got an assignment for you. You can complete it in my office or your room; once that's done you're on your own for the rest of today. You're normally going to be spending late afternoons with Agent Marek but we'll leave that for today. You can meet him tomorrow. You won't be starting his class until he and Range Master Borrs think you're ready for it.

Barton nodded and they walked in a comfortable silence back to Coulson's office. Coulson walked behind his desk and handed over the results of his shopping trip earlier in the day, some brightly colored early reader books for Barton to practice his reading on. Coulson opened his mouth to explain that he expected one book to be read a night, but before he could the companionable silence rapidly became neither.

Barton took one look at the books, shoved them on the floor and left, a resounding "Fuck you!" sent Coulson's way, along with a few other colorful phrases. Phil sat down on his chair hard, and in a moment of self indulgence gently allowed his head to thump against his desk as he spoke out loud to himself. "Well, that could have gone better."

A/N

Yes, I am an amateur, backyard archer. No, I am NOT an expert, in any way, nor do I shoot in the manner described. I've tried it a few times, and lost a few arrows. **chuckles**

Using a bow stringer: watch?v=RQva0lgRb6E

Archery fast shooting watch?v=1o9RGnujlkI

watch?v=2zGnxeSbb3g Lars Anderson – faster than Legolas

Seated rifle position .

Reading rifle targets 2011/06/02/reading-rifle-targets/


	6. Learning Curve

The Archer Chapter 6 Learning Curve

The next day was similar to the first. The medical exam was replaced with a dental visit, and Range Master Borrs evaluated Barton on hand guns this time around, but again he started the session with archery. As had been the case yesterday, the archery session calmed the younger man down considerably. Coulson wouldn't go so far as to say that a bond was forming between Barton and Borrs, but he seemed willing to listen to the range master's instruction and was almost easy going on the range.

Meanwhile, Phil spent most of the morning closeted with Emily Ford, the head of the education department. He left with a series of books written for adult beginning readers, a card game designed to teach complex mathematical principles and a stern warning to only use one at a time, preferably reading first. He also had a sour stomach and an incoming headache in anticipation of the fight that was about to be on his hands after lunch.

He wasn't wrong. The books ended up on the floor again and this time the parting words instructed Coulson to assume a highly unlikely anatomical position. He also had to resort to using the tracking anklet to find Barton, who managed to dodge almost all of the security, as well as the notice of all of the trainees and most of the seasoned agents.

Over the course of the next two hours, Barton spent half an hour clearing a copier jam, adding toner and making some adjustments for one of the secretaries, covering himself to the elbows in powdered toner in the process. The secretary thanked him with a hug and a kiss, which he responded to with a shy smile and a ducked head. He then managed to work his way into the kitchens which resulted in him leaving with a handful of cookies, which he shared with some of the custodians.

He made it to his afternoon session with Agent Hlas, and no one that Coulson spoke to in the other areas complained, so Phil let it go. Instead, he spent the evening wining and dining several members of the Psych department.

Wednesday morning, Coulson introduced Barton to the gym, track and outdoor running path. He pointed out the cross country course and the several obstacle courses, but requested that Barton avoid them for now, per doctor's orders. Range and combat time went as before. During the two hours of free time between the end of his range time and the beginning of his time with Agent Hlas, Barton wandered the hallways of SHIELD.

Thankful for SHIELD's insistence on overlapping security cameras, Coulson noted the areas he was able to talk his way into. There weren't many, but there shouldn't have been any. During his wanderings, the former assassin found his way onto the roof of the compound and discovered the dog training area. More time was spent with another trip to the kitchens, which led to him almost being late to his afternoon class. When Phil asked later, he found that Barton had fixed a leaky sink in the kitchen.

Barton was in medical again on Thursday, getting X-rays of his feet. After Barton had agreed to shoot for them, AIM had apparently given him enough medical attention for the feet to heal functionally. The SHIELD doctors were cautiously optimistic that they could improve things a bit with surgery, but for now the archer was refusing that option. They had taken measurements for custom made boots that should help to alleviate much of the pain that he was reluctantly admitting to. Thursday afternoon the secretary he had helped earlier in the week approached him in the halls, and he ended up cleaning the coils of the refrigerator in the break room she led him to.

Friday morning underscored the need to get Barton's academic skills, if not to where they should be, at least closer. Barton spent the morning in Agent Barre's geopolitical class, with a recorder and instructions to pay attention. Coulson met with Barre immediately afterwards, while Barton went to the range. Barre looked up from his desk and shook his head as Phil entered the classroom. "That new one isn't going to work. Barton seemed incapable of finding most countries on a map even with assistance. It's obvious he has little geographical knowledge, much less anything political. I'll grant you, he seems to know South America and Eastern Europe well, but other than that, he's hopeless."

"What exactly do you mean by hopeless?"

"Seriously, Phil, I can't convince him that the Congo and the Democratic Republic of the Congo are two separate countries. I can maybe, sort of understand that one, but he's doing the same thing with Ghana and the Ivory Coast! There are only so many times you can say 'Ghana's the red one, Ivory Coast is dark green!' There is something seriously wrong with this one, Phil. He's going to flunk out, mark my words." Phil did, but not for the reasons the instructor meant.

Coulson had a lunch meeting with Special Agent Marek, who was his usual blunt self. "Boy ain't dumb. How much education does he have?"

Phil admitted, "Little to none."

Marek nodded. "Figured as much. What _exactly_ do you want me to make out of him? If you just want an assassin, seems he's done well enough in that. Borrs can teach him marksmanship just as well as I can. If you want a sniper, that's going to take some more work. Snipers aren't just sharpshooters; they need to understand the details of a mission in depth, need to be able to make decisions on the fly and on their own, but they also need to work in a team. So I've got two concerns. We need to get him educated, and we need to get him trusting others enough to work with them."

Phil replied "I think we're all going to have work together on that."

Marek grunted. "I'll bring the beer. You bring the pizza." After an evening spent over pizza and beer with Agents Marek and Borrs, Phil exited with a mission plan and what was promising to be an ulcer.

Friday morning, Coulson met Probationary Agent Barton and the Range Master at the small outdoor range. Range Master Borrs nodded to both of them, then opened up his rifle case to take out a small wooden implement about two feet in length.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked Barton in a conversational tone as he picked up a small spear that had been lying on the table next to the firing line.

Barton shook his No as he looked on, interested.

"It's an atlatl, a dart thrower. Here, throw this." He handed the probationary agent the small spear. Barton gripped it about half way along its length, pulled his arm back and threw.

Borrs pursed his lips. "Hold it like this." He corrected Barton's grip and motioned for him to make another throw.

This time, the dart traveled half again as far as the first. Borrs took one up and threw; his stuck into the ground twice as far downrange as Barton's furthest attempt.

Then Borrs took up the atlatl. "Got any idea how to use this?" Barton again shook his head No but Coulson could see that his interest was definitely rising. He suppressed a smile. Dr. Daniel's advice might just be working.

"Want to give it a try?" Borrs asked.

Barton took it willingly enough but then just held it. "I don't even know where to start."

"Put the butt of the dart against that lip. Now hold it like this," he demonstrated, then moved in to fine tune the archer's hold on the ancient weapon. "Snap it forward."

The spear fell off the atlatl and landed in front of Barton's feet, who laughed. "Show me?" Borrs nodded and took the dart and atlatl, then executed a perfect throw. The dart flew past the 100 foot mark. Barton whistled. Borrs turned to him. "Want to try again?"

He and the archer spent the next half hour practicing and refining the archer's technique. When his throw passed Borr's hundred footer, the range master called an end to that day's practice and turned to Barton.

"You did this willingly, with perfect attention to my instructions and help."

The probie looked at him with a slightly confused expression. "Yeah, why wouldn't I?"

"Why didn't you get angry or frustrated that you didn't know how to do this?" Borrs countered.

"I've never seen one of these before. How was I supposed to know how to use it?"

"You weren't. This was a brand new experience for you. I only know how to use one because my college had a team. But you didn't answer my question. Why didn't you turn down my help on this?"

Barton stared at him for a good length of time, then over at Coulson. "This is about the reading, isn't it?" Coulson nodded, while Borrs grinned.

"Can't pull one over on you. Yeah. I think you get my point, but I'm going to say it any way. No shame if you don't know something because you've never been taught it. Holds true whether it's an ancient weapon or reading."

Phil could see the blond's jaw muscles start to tighten as he tensed. "It's different."

"How?"

"Everyone knows how to read."

"Not if they were never taught properly. A lot of things can interfere with learning. Bad teachers, bad conditions, moving a lot, being hungry or cold all the time, not speaking the language…"

"I can speak English just fine!"

"Never said you couldn't. Never said any of that applied to you. Was just giving you some reasons why people never learned how to read. Can't do anything about the past, but we can do something about now." Borrs waved at Coulson, who picked up the narrative.

"I made some mistakes, which have been rather thoroughly explained to me," Phil explained, nodding in response to Borrs' amused snort. Barton gave the ghost of a smile. "As Senior Agent Borrs said," Borrs snorted again at the formal title, "I can't change the mistakes of my past but I can learn from them. I tried to teach you the way I learned, without taking into account our different learning styles. I believe that I have corrected those mistakes, and I apologize for making them. If you feel that I am continuing to make the same mistakes, please let me know."

"Why do you care how well I read? Been doing fine for years."

Coulson nodded. "We want you to do better than fine. We want you to be the best that you can. Agent Marek says that, operating on instinct alone, you'll be a better sniper than half of his class. However he sees even more potential in you."

"Like you said, I outshoot most of the class already. I'm hitting center of mass at a 1000 yards."

Phil very carefully did not smile. "World record for a confirmed kill by a sniper is currently 2,500 yards. Think you can beat that?"

Barton narrowed his eyes, then conceded "Not yet."

Borrs grinned. "Atta boy!"

Coulson said "When you are finished here, would you please join me in my office? I have different books, more appropriate ones.

"Barbar goes…"

"Barbara."

Barton let out an exasperated huff then started over, "Barbara goes to see Zara Rose I see a family wedding I see a holiday and I see you with money."

"You need to stop at the periods. Take a breath at each period." Phil was fairly certain he heard an eye roll.

The archer re-read the sentences with a loud intake of breath at each period. "Barbara goes to see Zara Rose. I see a family wedding. I see a holiday. And I see you with money." He looked up from his hunched over position on the couch to where Coulson was typing on his computer. "That's exactly the sort of stuff our fortune teller would say to people. They were always going to meet a dark-haired stranger or come into money or something like that."

"People don't like to hear bad news. Telling them stories of good luck makes them more likely to come back."

"Yeah, Madam Zanzibar was always saying things like…"

"Barton. Finish the book."

The archer let out a huff, shifted his position several times, then started reading again. "Barbara was happy. Thank you she said. On the way home. The next day Barbara"

"I think you missed something."

"That's all it says! There's a picture here but no words!"

Phil pulled his reading glasses down to see that yes, indeed, the page had no words - just a picture of a girl being hit by a clown on a bicycle. "I'm sorry, I've never read this book series. I didn't realize that they used pictures to help tell the story."

Barton sniffed, the picture of righteous indignation. Phil sighed internally. "As soon as you finish this book and the vowel chart, I'll read you the first page in my book."

The archer rolled his eyes. "Yeah, some book about snotty rich people just talking or something like that."

Phil was glad for his experiences with his nephews and nieces; it made it much easier for him to deal with Barton acting like a pre-schooler. "No, the first chapter is about Gunnery Sergeant Hathcock."

"Who's that?" The words were flavored with a healthy dollop of "why should I care?"

"He holds the world record for longest distance for a confirmed sniper kill."

The assassin-turned-preschooler sat up. "Guess he's pretty good?"

"He's held the record since 1967."

A low whistle came from the couch. A beat of silence. Then "I'll beat it."

Coulson didn't allow himself to smile. "When you do, I'll give you a cookie."

"Bullshit! I break a world record, I get a whole box of cookies!"

"Barton, you break that record, I'll _bake_ you the best cookies you've ever had."

That earned him a glare with just a hint of a dare in it. "Marcela the Bearded Lady made the best cookies."

"The second best cookies you've ever had."

"Don't think you can beat Marcela's cookies."

"I wouldn't even try. Now, the book."

The blond settled back into the couch with an exaggerated groan worthy of a teen ager, and turned back to the book. "The next day Barbara went back to Zara Rose. She's angry and upset. Her leg is so…sor…sorry her arm is sorry and "

"Not certain you've got the right word there." Coulson thought for a moment. "Do you mean sore?"

"No, this is spelle E."

"That spells sore."

"I thought sore was spelled soar!"

"That's when it refers to flying or gliding. This is sore when it refers to being hurt."

"This is stupid! Words should be spelled the same way!" The book flew across the room, hit the wall and slid down into the trash can.

Coulson wordlessly fished it out of the papers and tossed it back with a flick of his wrist. "I agree with you, and I wish it was an easier language to learn how to read. I also wish that people didn't do things to end up on SHIELD's problem list, I wish everyone got their paperwork in on time, and I wish that my favorite team would win more often."

He looked over to where Barton sat hunched over, tension radiating out from him. Phil had an idea. He pulled several quarters out of his desk drawer and clicked them against the desk top to get the archer's attention before throwing them his way. The former circus performer caught them out of the air with an unconscious flourish.

"There's a vending machine down the hall and to the right. I think I saw some Oreos in it. Get some for yourself and if you see any donuts, get some for me."

Barton bounded off the couch and headed off. Phil nodded to himself. One step back, two steps forward.

He returned quickly enough, one cookie hanging out of his mouth and a package of powdered donuts in his hand. Phil held his hand out for the donuts and then gestured towards the couch. "Finish the book, please, before you finish the cookies."

All traces of sullenness gone, the blond sat down and picked up the book again. "What hap, hap, hap-pen-ed"

"Happened."

"What happened asked Zara Rose. You should know. A bike hit me on the way home. Well I saw the wedding the holiday and the money said Zara Rose. But you didn't see the bike said Barbara. No. And did you see this?"

Barton laughed and held out the book for Phil to see the picture the book ended with – Barbara knocking over Zara Rose's crystal ball.

Phil allowed a genuine smile to cross his face. This was his first glimpse behind the masks, behind the hardened assassin, behind the exhaustion and despair. This was his first glimpse of Bernard's younger brother, of the youngster that Bernard had fought so hard to protect. This was a young man looking at a book with pride, who eagerly shared it with someone else.

He'd have to make it a point to call Bernard tonight to let him know.

Clint woke up that morning and started his normal, comfortable routine. Come to think of it, that was probably the first time he'd been able to add that word 'comfortable' to that sentence. It wasn't raining anymore, and he'd spent the past two days in the gym, working out, so he figured it was time for a run. He changed into his exercise gear, including his new custom made boots which made a _hell_ of a difference. He counted his walk to the cross country track as his warm up and began one of the best parts of his day.

When he'd first started, he could barely walk the entire distance. When he'd first been sentenced in Iowa he'd turned all of his attention to getting himself in the best shape he could. He was a small, blond guy with blue eyes and no previous affiliations, in the prison system for life. He knew damn well he was going to in for some fights and he worked hard to give himself every advantage he could. He'd joined up with a group, earned their respect and tattoos, and did everything he could to make himself stronger and faster.

Arizona had changed all that. Life in the Death Row wing was very different. He was allowed out into a yard for two hours at a time, three days a week. Showers were also three days a week. Other than that, he spent his day in his cell, completely isolated from all human contact other than his jailors. He could use his time in his cell to do push ups, sit ups, stuff like that, but there really hadn't seemed to be a point to it. What weight and muscle he'd gained in Iowa slowly wasted off of him.

Coming to SHIELD had literally given him a second chance at life. He could run the entire length of the track now, through most of the base, across lawns, through woods and up and down hills. The surface varied from asphalt to dirt to soft leaves and needles, which was an incredibly welcome change from the unchanging concrete floors of his ward in Browning. Here it was really easy to turn an ankle, so he had to pay attention to where his pounding feet touched down.

He was sorely tempted to lose himself in the repetition, to let his mind stop looking for possible ambush sites and vantage points, but he couldn't let himself relax that much. Instead, he concentrated on the improving his time. It was tough, and challenging and it reminded him of his new found freedom like nothing else. For this time, he could feel like he was flying.

At the end of the two and a half miles, he was sweaty and covered in mud up to his knees from running through puddles. He could take a shower so that wasn't a big deal, but the wet shoes were. He'd have to figure something out…

His breathing had returned to normal by the time he got back, and the cold air on his sweaty skin was making him shiver. When he and Barney were kids they used to lay in the dark, with their shared blankets and dream of the day when they would be rich enough to get hot water and enough food so they wouldn't be hungry. In Arizona showers were a brief distraction he desperately looked forward to for days at a time. And now he had that every day, any time he wanted it.

He grabbed a towel and clean clothes and headed to the showers, letting the hot water warm him and relax his sore muscles. He saw some of the other trainees looking his way, and overheard enough to know that they were talking about his scars. He gave them a glare and they shut up fast.

The scars didn't bother him – way he figured it, each one was a badge, a memory of a time when someone tried to kill him but he won. The 6 inch scar on the back of his head, cigarette burns from the Old Man, cuts on his knuckles from fights, the bullet wound in his shoulder, slices and cuts from years of hard work in the circus – he figured none of the idiots that stared at him would have lasted a month in his life.

The trainees that didn't stare and talk, the ones that had similar scars, they knew. Somehow, they were most of his classmates. He was learning that they were the ones that were important to him. The others were going to be paper pushers and computer geeks. Fuck 'em.

He reluctantly turned off the water and toweled off, then dressed in SHIELD issued cargo pants and the dark color of t-shirt. He stuffed his feet into boots (that actually fit, and man did THAT make a difference) and headed back to his room.

He left his door open, as was his habit (just because he could) and tried to figure out a way to dry his shoes. The heater kicked on, and that sparked an idea as he looked up at the air vent. Maybe if he stuck them in the air vent, the hot air would dry them before tomorrow.

As he was standing on his bed, prying the vent cover off with his pocket knife, two of the computer geeks stopped in the doorway, gaping. The bigger, dark haired one spoke up "Barton, what are you, um, are you…"

The thinner one with the lighter hair picked up where his friend left off. "Is THAT how you manage to sneak everywhere?"

Clint looked up at the tiny vent, thought about what he knew about air vents from his (admittedly short) time working in construction and sighed, then looked at them and grinned. "Yep, spend most of my day inside the vents. Catch all the juicy gossip that way." They blinked, then they both gave him a thumbs up and headed off on their way.

Clint rolled his eyes. Really? Skulking around in vents? Had these people never actually seen ventilation ducts? Thin, noisy, tiny, and held up with straps that were just strong enough to hold the duct, not 150 pounds plus of archer. He shook his head, pushed his shoes inside the vent, and jumped down. A quick check at the clock had him cursing and sprinting out the door.

He grabbed breakfast to go (ham and cheese sandwich, cup of chopped fruit, coffee with a handful of those little buckets of creamer and an apple) then headed for his morning class on world politics. He never thought that he would want to know anything about world politics, but his time taking contracts had taught him that his pay followed the conflicts. Knowing who was pissed off at who was the best way to make certain that he got paid enough to eat. He just wished that the professor wasn't such a dick.

He set up the recorder that Coulson had given him and bolted his food before the rest of the class showed up. The professor frowned at him, but didn't say anything, so Clint ignored him. If he kept his cool and stayed focused during the class, he got an hour on the archery range.

He'd tried faking it a few times, but Agent Coulson always seemed to know when he was really paying attention and when he was just there. Which was freaky because it wasn't like Coulson was in the classroom or anything. Hidden cameras were a gimme, but still, was the guy watching him all the time? Well, it wasn't like he wasn't used to constant surveillance. At least here he was allowed out of his cell, no ROOM, pretty much any time he wanted.

Clint had to admit that the class wasn't as bad as he remembered school being. He already knew how this information was important and why. The professor didn't mind students asking questions and a lot of the class was spent discussing possible ramifications of current situations around the world.

Clint did his best to follow along, and at one point even got an "Excellent observation, Mr. Barton!" from the professor. It would've been better if the guy didn't have a look of utter shock on his face, like one of the chairs had spoken up, but hey, he'd take what he could get, right?

Clint had done well enough for long enough that by now he didn't have to check in with Coulson before he went to the archery range any more. This was the time he truly looked forward to every day. Any time he got to spend with a bow was always fun, but the bows he got to use here were OUTSTANDING. Recurves and compounds, full size and compact, light weight easy to pull and bows with heavy draws that packed one hell of a punch, he had a buffet to choose from every day, and not a twisted limb, not a fraying string among the whole bunch. He had multiple types of arrows to choose from – cedar, aluminum, fiberglass and even some carbon fiber. Every bow had at least a dozen arrows with the correct spine.

He'd always been good, but with the proper equipment – well, it was like he just couldn't miss. He'd already torn up the centers of all of the targets so much that now he made designs in them, just to spread out the damage. He spelled out this week's sight words, then grinned at the camera, hoping that would get him out of having to copy them in Coulson's office later.

After archery it was time for lunch. Clint would have been more than happy to skip lunch for more time with his bow (seriously, two meals a day was plenty) but apparently that wasn't 'Acceptable' and 'Didn't meet the Nutritional Guidelines'. If he stayed late, that time was subtracted from his allowed time the next day. Of course, that might have something to do with the fact that he ate lunch in Coulson's office while he worked on his reading. He checked all the strings, waxed a few, checked all the arrows for straightness, and finally just couldn't put it off any longer. He locked everything up and headed for lunch.

He grabbed a wrap sandwich, a cup of chicken vegetable soup, a bag of chips and a cookie (that Louise totally gave him from the new batch with a smile) and a bottle of water and with a sigh headed towards Coulson's office.

He'd never admit it to Coulson, but he didn't mind the lunch hour work. Reading still gave him a headache and made him all tense but it wasn't as bad as it used to be. He was up to Level Four in his reading series, which was the highest level. The books he was reading were way better than that baby crap Coulson had tried to start him on. Most of them were funny, some of them were about stuff that had happened a long time ago.

Yesterday he'd read one about the woman that pretended to be a guy so she could be a doctor. That had been pretty cool, and he and Coulson ended up talking about it for a while. Coulson had pulled some documentaries for him from the SHIELD library and he had started watching the first one last night.

When he walked into Coulson's office, however, his books were all on the shelf instead of spread out on top of the bookcase. Instead, in their place was a packet of paper and some weird cards. He looked at Coulson questioningly.

"Agent Marek tells me that you're pretty much at the end of what you can do until we can improve your math skills."

"I can do math just fine. But you people don't seem to realize that letters are for books, not math. Math uses numbers." Coulson gave him a tight lipped smile and nodded at the cards. Clint grabbed them but then sat down on the couch and started eating his food first.

Coulson came out from behind his desk and turned one of the visitor's chairs around so it faced the small table in front of the couch. Using chalk, he drew a vertical line on the table. He looked at the first page of the packet, then searched around the cards until he found a card with a box, one with a wiggly worm and two with spirals. He laid them out so that the worm was on the right side of the table and the others were on the left. Clint continued to eat and be confused.

"Some rules. Try to isolate the box. If there is a green whirlpool, you can remove it."

Clint spoke around his mouthful of sandwich. "Whirlpool?" Coulson pointed at the spirals. Clint shrugged, wiped his hands on his pants and picked up the two spiral cards. Coulson nodded. "Excellent. You isolated the box, used the right number of moves and left the table with the right number of cards on it. Now try this." This consisted of three spirals with the box, while the worm was replaced with a fish. Clint once again picked up the spiral cards and handed them to Coulson, wondering what in the hell this had to do with math.

The third round was different. There was a…space armadillo? on the left side, a grumpy tomato on a light back ground, the same tomato on a dark back ground, a light card with two dots and a black card with two dots. Coulson spoke again. "Each day card has a night card. They cancel out."

"What does that mean?"

"Like when you get paid with a $10 bill but you owe someone $10. Put the money and the debt together, and you're left with nothing." Clint nodded. He moved the two tomatoes together and Phil replaced them with a spiral, which Clint removed. This was repeated with the dotted cards.

This went on for the entire lunch hour. Each round slowly grew more complicated. Sometimes Clint didn't figure it out, so Coulson would reset the original hand of cards. Sometimes Clint finally got the box by itself, but he left too many cards or did it in too many moves. Coulson would explain that to him and then give him the choice to move on or retry.

He tried both, to see which one Coulson wanted him to do. He was pretty sure he was supposed to redo things until he got things completely correct, but Coulson never said anything to stop him when he chose to move on. Once Clint realized that there really wasn't going to be any sort of lecture or punishment for his choices, he began to choose to redo the hand more and more often.

Okay, so he was spending WAY more time inside classrooms and offices than he ever though he would, but he was also spending time outside. He had time with his bow and learning rifles, while not as satisfying, was still pretty damn cool. Even the reading and the stupid cards fun in a way; they challenged him and made him think. Nothing had done that since he had planned his last hit. It was…kinda cool to be able to figure stuff out without having to kill someone at the end of it.

He knew that if he messed up, all of this would be gone and he'd be back in a cell, waiting for his execution. Clint knew that this wasn't going to last – nothing did, but he was going to get every last thing that he could out of it. And when he ended up back on death row, at least he'd have the memories of green lawns and archery targets and a soft couch while a voice talked (never yelled) about words and cards and documentaries.

Yeah. He'd put up with a hell of a lot to keep this going as long as he could.

A/N warnings – Clint contrasts life at SHIELD to life on death row. His thoughts are not always happy. As before, if you are looking for accuracy about the justice system, this is not the fic you are looking for. You can go about your business. Move along, move along.

For the series of books for adult beginning readers see . . . The book Clint reads is . .

Yes, some colleges really do have atlatl teams .

Gunnery Sergeant Hathcock wiki/Carlos_Hathcock

For the algebra card game mentioned, check out . This story takes place before tablets and smartphones, so instead of an app I made it into a card game, which it essentially is anyway. This game taught me more than I've ever learned in any algebra course I've ever taken. I struggle in algebra, yet I play this game for fun. I cannot praise it highly enough.


	7. Not Out of the Woods Yet

The Archer Chapter 7 – One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

"Ain't got friends, don't want friends, don't need friends," the blond haired man in the mirror told him. Clint stared at himself and tried to convince himself that the words were true. Clint wasn't that well liked, among the recruits and agents-in-training. That was fine with him; he didn't need to be liked. Friends were just people you let inside your guard, people you allowed to get close enough to hit you when you didn't expect it. Every time he'd had friends in the past, they'd let him down.

The problem was that he was expected to be making friends. It was obvious that most of the others in his class were getting along well, hanging out after classes, going to the few places close enough to the base to qualify as hang outs. Some nights were spent in the room designated as the lounge, in front of an old TV, usually with some game on, almost always with beer and pizza or subs, some sort of greasy food.

Somehow, everyone always knew about those nights, everyone except him. That was fine; he didn't drink, didn't know enough about TV and celebrities to talk about them, and while he liked watching games just fine, he didn't follow any team and couldn't talk about standings or MVPs.

The few times he'd joined in the gatherings, he'd ended up in a corner, far away from everyone else, just watching and feeling out of place. He had no shared experiences, no common ground with anyone. Most of them were former military, and some were former law enforcement. And that just freaked him right the fuck out, so he ended up leaving as quietly as he could.

Classes weren't helping. World Politics was still a struggle, and he got things wrong so frequently that he had finally just stopped talking at all, unless the instructor called on him. It wasn't being wrong; he got things wrong with Coulson all the time, but Coulson never made him feel stupid. The things that other students muttered under their breaths, the eyerolls and the laughs exchanged while two or more of them looked at him; he knew he wasn't all that smart but having it pointed out like made it harder and harder for him to try. If they hadn't been studying South America right now, he probably would have quit the class (couldn't quit, couldn't give them an excuse to send him back, had to stick it out...) He knew enough from his time there with Nadine that he could keep up. He could do it, he could make it through the class. He would do it.

Combat skills was fun, but he was woefully behind everyone else. He was still getting one on one time, along with the group class, where he got his butt kicked regularly. He was trying to take it as a chance to learn, like Hlas told him, but no one else lost as often, needed to practice so much, had no martial arts background. Hlas told him that he was improving, and he could see that, but it wasn't much and it wasn't fast enough.

_One class, that everyone referred to as "Agent Skills", consisted primarily of ill-gotten skills he'd picked up over the course of his life. Things like how to hot wire a car, pick a lock, and pick pockets. He was good at this class - too good._It had been nice to have one thing, one freakin' thing he was doing with other people that he was good at. So he'd relaxed, maybe showed off a little. And that was all the others had needed to figure out most of his past.

The two others being trained for long distance work were snipers; they'd both been in the military. When they were learning in natural situations or working openly in war zones, they were great and Clint shut his mouth and tried to learn from them. But it was pretty apparent that he had more experience in the down and dirty skills of assassinations. People who got onto SHIELD's shit list were rarely sitting in the middle of the woods. The people SHIELD went after businessmen, living and working in cities, surrounded by people and buildings. They moved from armored cars into protected buildings through underground entrances, never exposing themselves to long distance shots. They were expecting someone to be after them. They knew to stay away from windows and exposed balconies.

This wasn't sniping. This was assassinating. You had to get close to your target. You had to get inside the back entrances, the service hallways. You had to make friends with the janitors and the maids, the busboys standing in the alley, stealing a smoke.

Clint tried to tell the other two this, but words were never on his side. He was uneducated in all of the ways that mattered to other people, and he didn't talk right, and no matter what he tried to say, he always got it wrong. The talks always ended up with the others being angry at him, angry enough that it spread to the others in his class. He didn't know much about how to act with other people, not normal people at any rate, but he knew what it meant when others went out of their way to keep him alone. In the gym, others moved away from the machine he was using. He was always alone in the cafeteria, even if it was a busy time and finding an empty table was tough. In the hallways, shoulders bumped into him more often than usual.

In prison, he'd have jumped on several of them, for far less than what they were doing. He knew how to push back, how to force them to respect him. But here, if he fought, he'd be back at Browning, where the only thing than ran out faster than his appeals was his will to keep fighting for them.

He heard the other trainees talking about him. They used words he was used to hearing, "dumb" and "uneducated" or "trash". They also used new words like "cold", "dismissive", "condescending" and "volatile." He'd had to ask Coulson what that one meant. Coulson had stared at him, and Clint immediately knew it had been a mistake. Coulson wanted to know the context he'd heard it in, and Clint wouldn't say, so the senior agent got that look he often did when he wanted to know answers. That look usually didn't end well for Barton.

"You can do this, Barton," he told his reflection. The blond in the mirror grimaced. He nodded. "I know how you feel, buddy, but it's this or back into the cell. So grow a pair." His counterpart nodded, then he turned his back and headed to the rifle range. He could do this. He could make it through this day.

Clint headed outside to spend the rest of the afternoon with Agent Marek for his rifle training. He couldn't lose himself in it, like he did with his bows, and it wasn't the freedom of running, but it was pretty cool anyway. He still preferred his bow, the way it felt like part of him, the way he just _knew_ how to put the arrow where he wanted it, but rifles were fun. The sense of controlled energy made him feel powerful and important.

When he arrived at the range that the rifle class used, he knew something was up. There were no targets set up, there were no rifles and everyone was milling around. As soon as he joined the class, Agent Marek started walking and gestured for everyone to follow him. After a 15 minute walk, they ended up outside a tall wooden fence. Wooden, metal and concrete structures were visible above the fence. Tables outside the fence held rifles that looked substantially different from what he was used to.

Agent Marek stepped up and started talking. "Alright, listen up. Today we're doing a group training exercise. You will be using paintball rifles to simulate live fire. If you take a hit to the head, neck, torso or upper thigh, you will be considered a fatality. A hit anywhere else renders that limb unusable. There is a primary target inside as well as multiple targets representing enemy combatants. You've been randomly assigned into teams. Halpern, Candon, Lieber are the red team. Standish, Ottern and Barton are blue. Viola, Gutierrez and Fujioka are green. Tallman, Wiegand and Vipin are yellow. Get armbands and the correct color of paintball."

Clint walked up to Marek. "We're still trying to figure out how to make a bow that fires paintballs. We don't have it yet, but we are working on it. We want you at your best, and that means giving you your best weapon. In the meantime we want you using a rifle. Weapons break, get dropped, get taken and a hundred other things in the field. We want you capable with more than one weapon. That a problem?"

Clint had no problem replying "No sir." Marek had earned his respect many times over, so both the use of the 'sir' and the willingness to shoot something other than his favorite weapon were easy decisions to make.

Clint grabbed the last remaining armband and the package of paintballs that was closest to it and headed over to his team. And things were fun, for a while. They ran around the course, shot each other, got shot, and kinda started working together. Ottern asked him what he thought the best course of action was, and listened. Most of the time. She also had some ideas that worked out really well, and Clint started to shut up and listen more and more as the afternoon went on. Otter was really starting to work out how to get her teammates' strengths to match each other's weaknesses.

Then they took a break for water and protein bars, and to compare bruises, and of course during the break Marek changed up their teams. Sure enough, that was all it took for Clint to start messing things up. He managed to shoot someone on his team three out of the next five rounds. Candon took it personally.

"What the hell, man? I know you did that on purpose!"

"I got confused." Clint's voice was sullen.

"How. The. Fuck! You shot me right above my freakin' armband, you asshole! You can't tell me you didn't see it!"

Clint knew better than to try to explain. People heard what they wanted to. Besides, admitting to any weakness was just giving them weapons to use against you. What had started out as a team building exercise ended up with six people mad at him, and even Otter was giving him some sort of look.

Marek pulled him aside, but Clint wasn't about to start talking. He just stared at his boots until Marek stopped talking. The others had long since gone, so Clint cleaned his paintball rifle alone, put it away, and then walked back. Dinner in the crowded cafeteria just wasn't what he wanted tonight, so he skipped food altogether and spent two hours on the archery range. He'd been hungry often enough that he was used to ignoring his stomach.

And while he lay on his bed, in the darkness, he ignored his loneliness equally. He'd had just as much practice at it.

Clint paid attention to his assignment and pretty much ignored everyone else's. In this exercise, he was assigned to be the sniper while the others were the combat team. The appointed leader was given a map and a quick briefing, then came back to give orders to the team. He was assigned his vantage point, which made him grit his teeth, but he held his tongue. He wasn't used to being told where to set up; for the years he'd been taking contracts he had been the only one to determine when and where the hits had happened. But his main goal at S.H.I.E.L.D. was to stay at S.H.I.E.L.D., so he was willing to give up this amount of control.

He waited while the first group ran through their exercise, exiting through another door on the far side of the training ground. When it was his group's turn, he took a breath and ran through door at the heels of his temporary team, then took an immediate left and headed to his assigned vantage point. He immediately knew that there were going to be problems. His location was on the highest roof, but the sight lines were blocked in some crucial areas. He wasn't going to be able to cover everyone as they entered the building they were storming. He checked his watch – he had a few seconds to decide if he was going to stay or move, if he was going to do his job or obey orders.

If he screwed up at S.H.I.E.L.D., he was going back to Browning. The weight of the tracking bracelet on his ankle was an ever present reminder of that. He stayed.

It was the wrong choice.

Clint and the rest of his team stood in a line, shoulder to shoulder. Well, the rest of them were. There was a noticeable gap between the rest of them and him. They all stood rigidly in some sort of military stance which he didn't know and didn't try to copy, while Agent Marek reamed them out. None of them were spared, especially not him.

"Barton, why didn't you cover Gutierrez's group?"

"As soon as they turned the corner, I couldn't see them."

"When did you realized you had no sight line?" 

"As soon as he picked that stupid location."

"Would you PLEASE tell me what was going on in that brain of yours?"

"Figured following orders was the priority." Clint was firmly in fight or flight mode at this point, his entire body trembling with adrenaline and the need to act.

"You left yourself in a position where you knew you wouldn't be able to cover your team."

"Figured it wasn't worth getting thrown out, to cover them in some fake paintball game. I stayed where I was told." He could hear the other trainees grumbling, but he kept his attention on the man in front of him.

Marek's jaw was clenching and a vein in his temple throbbed. He stepped in and Clint actually stepped back, staying out of range of the punch he was certain was coming. But the instructor merely continued on in a lower volume.

"We have shooters. What we _need_ are snipers. We need people who can think for themselves, and who know when they _have_ to go against orders given at the beginning of an engagement. I deliberately chose that position to be wrong, to test you. And you failed."

He stepped back and raised his voice. "All of you, I expect a written report on my desk by 0800 tomorrow. You will include what you yourself did wrong and how you intend to correct that mistake in the future. Clean your gear before you leave. Dismissed." And with that, he walked off.

Clint stood there for a moment, tempted to walk off, but he'd never asked anyone to clean up his messes before and he wasn't going to start now. He cleaned out his rifle, and scrubbed down his armor. The others had gotten upset with him in the past for not cleaning all of the paint out of the camouflaged armor, so he made certain to scrub it well. So of course he heard the comments and the insults being muttered about him. Things died down a bit, then he heard Otter say "Leave it alone. It's not worth it."

Normally he spent the time between training and dinner in Coulson's office, listening to the recordings from his class earlier in the day and making notes, with Coulson there to make certain he got the highlights. If Clint had any questions Coulson could usually answer them. Clint found that he was understanding and remembering a lot more since Coulson had started requiring this from him. He didn't necessarily like it, but since it seemed to be working he didn't argue about it.

Today, however, he just couldn't bring himself to care. This was it; he'd screwed up. His instructor was angry, the rest of the group was mad at him, and his so called 'team' had given up on him. The whole failure had been his stupid mistake. He'd known since he had left the prison that he was one screw up from being sent back to decades of solitary confinement with only his own execution in the future.

He could feel the walls closing in already. He abruptly changed his course and headed into the woods around the cross country course. It took a few minutes of walking and a scramble up a heavily wooded bank before he reached his goal – a ridge that overlooked the entire SHIELD compound, and past that more woods, a river, a small town. On the ridge was a tree that had fallen a few years before. He reached under it and pulled out a small backpack. He pulled out the wire cutters that he had managed to scrounge, then sat down on the ground behind the tree and pulled up the leg of his pants. The ankle monitor stared back at him.

Every instinct in his body screamed at him to cut and run, run as far and as fast as he could. He knew that wasn't possible with the monitor tracking his movements. He'd be caught as soon as he set foot outside the perimeter. Cutting it off, on the other hand, would alert SHIELD as soon as he cut the bracelet. And on the (slim) chance that they were thinking of any leniency, Clint knew that would disappear the minute he tried to cut and run.

Stay, and get thrown back into hell.

Run, and get caught.

_Hell of a choice you've got, Barton._ He pulled his knees up to his chest, wrapped his hands around the back of his head, and used the shelter of his arms to block out the world.

Just for a few minutes. Just until they came back to shove him into concrete and chains and years of unremitting silence and soul crushing despair.

Just until the world crashed around him.

A bird sang as he waited.

The breeze went through his shirt, carried away his warmth.

The shadows moved across him.

Leaves crunched behind him. One person. Dress shoes appeared in his sight, close to the toes of his boots (tactical boots, soon to be replaced with bare feet to limit his chances of escape).

"I've got him," the voice said.

The shoes disappeared, then a body settled down on the ground next to him.

That wasn't the way this was supposed to happen.

He waited.

A bird sang.

He glanced sideways. The expensive looking pants of the suit stayed where they were.

The breeze grew colder.

He looked again. Coulson sat there, looking at the trees and underbrush as if this was a normal activity for him.

Clint finally couldn't take it any longer.

"Why don't you just put the cuffs on me and get this over with?"

Coulson looked over at him. "Why would I do that?"

Clint blinked. That wasn't the way this was supposed to happen. His jaw clenched and his brain screamed at him to run. He told it to shut up.

It didn't listen.

Coulson sat.

The bird sang.

Clint was starting to hate that bird.

"You waiting until tomorrow to kick me out? Because that's pretty fucked up, to make me wait all night."

"We're not kicking you out. Why would you think we are?"

Clint blinked again. "I screwed up."

"How do you figure that?"

Clint glared. "I ruined the whole stupid training mission!"

Coulson shook his head, his expression never changing from his usual bland, polite smile.

"You did not handle yourself the way we expect our trained specialists to operate. You are not a trained specialist. That's why we're training you."

Clint mulled this over. "Marek seemed pretty freakin' angry."

"When someone goes down in the field, he sometimes takes it personally. If we sent you into the field as you are right now, people would die. But that would be our fault, because we didn't prepare you fully."

Clint snorted. "I've been on my own for years. I don't need training to survive. Don't need it to do my job, either."

"You are an efficient killer," Clint tried not to wince at the description, then made his expression blank, hoping Coulson hadn't seen his weakness. "But you're not as good as you could be. And you don't know how to work with a team yet."

"Don't need to work with a team."

"Barton, you're going to end up doing that much more often than you are going to be assassinating people. That is a solution that almost always causes more problems than it solves. We hold it in reserve, use it sparingly and really can't afford to have multiple people on our payroll just for that. What we need are people who have many functionalities, people we can use in many situations. Including providing adequate cover for a team."

"Well apparently I can't do that."

"You can't do that _yet_. That's the point of the mission report, to help you to understand what worked, what didn't and what can be improved." He stood up, then reached his hand out to Clint. "Come on. You missed dinner. I'll order pizza."

Clint stared at the hand, thought about filling his empty stomach with warm pizza.

He'd come in out of the cold for worse things. He took a breath, made up his mind and stood. But he didn't take the offer of Coulson's hand.

Coulson set the pizza down on the table, then sat down in one of the chairs and turned to face Clint. "Do you want to talk about what happened today?"

Clint glared at him. "You don't already know?"

Coulson shook his head. "I do know that you were told to write it up as a mission report. I'll learn what I need to know from that." He pointed at the pad of paper and the pen that were laid out on the table next to the pizza box. "Eat first, then write."

Clint ate a slice, savoring it as if it was going to be his last meal. Well, the last one with taste, at any rate. As a trouble maker in the prison, he got served Nutriloaf more often than not. That old saying wasn't a lie, that hunger was the best spice, but privately, he thought 'absolute certainty you were about to be denied any sort of sensory stimulation' ranked pretty freakin' high on the list, too. That led straight to a second slice, then a third.

The fourth, well, even Clint would probably admit that one was a delay tactic.

"Stop stalling for time. Write your report."

Clint blew out a breath in annoyance and just stared at him. The agent held his gaze with a calm, blandly pleasant expression. The staring match went on for a few minutes before Clint rolled his eyes and picked up the pen and paper.

Several minutes passed by, the silence broken only by Coulson's keyboard and Clint's pen. Coulson looked up at the sound of the paper being tossed onto the table. He held his hand out. "May I read that, please?"

"I dunno, but knock yourself out." Clint handed it to him. Coulson read over it in _far_ less time than it had taken to write it, which Clint felt was just unfair.

"You said that the vantage point assigned to you was, and I quote, 'stupid.'" Clint nodded. "Why?"

"Sight lines were blocked."

"Could you tell that from the ground?"

"Duh." Coulson gave a tiny sigh, just a slightly more forceful inhale and exhale. Clint was amused that he had achieved that, but at the same time a small part of him hated the implied disappointment. He told that part to shut up. "Yeah, I could tell from the ground."

"How?"

He wrinkled his forehead. "That weird part of the one building, that stair step thing on the roof? There was no way I was gonna be able to be on the roof I got sent to, and be able to see around that for that alley they were going down. It's all just angles."

"Then explain that in your report. Was there a better location?"

"Three story building, closer to them."

"That's considerably shorter than the building you were sent to." Coulson was busy adding more writing to Clint's report as he spoke.

"Height ain't everything, sure it usually gives you a better shot, but not always."

"Could you have made it there without being detected by the enemy combatants?"

"Yeah, there was plenty of cover."

"Write this in your mission report. Did you tell any of this to your leader?"

"No."

"Next time, do that."

"What if he don't listen?"

"Has Otter not listened to you in the past?"

"Ain't always gonna be on Otter's team."

"In that case, that's a different issue, and you tell me and you include that in your mission report." He handed the paper back to Clint, who looked down at it. Coulson's carefully printed words stood out against the careless, blocky lettering he had written. As he read each point, his body grew tenser and tenser.

_-Explain what was wrong with assigned vantage point_

_-Detail better vantage point – what it was, what made it better, how to tell from ground_

_-Explain how you would have approached while still under cover_

_-What did you do that needs to be corrected next time_

_-Do NOT refer to anyone as a "dumbass", "idiot" or "stupid." Stick to facts, not opinions._

Every comment he read underlined how bad he was at this, how stupid he was to think he could do this. Clint threw his pen across the room. "I'm no good at this shit!"

Coulson looked up, just as calm as he'd been this entire time. "You explained things to me well."

"That's different!"

"How?"

"That's talking, not writing."

Coulson nodded, then did something on his computer. "Okay, let's try this then. Talk to me. Explain everything. Answer my questions. Go slowly though, I can't type as fast as you talk."

Clint stared at him.

Eventually he spoke. "Why are you doing this?"

"The most important thing right now is to get you used to writing an effective report. We'll work on transferring these skills to writing, but for right now, we need to build those skills up."

"No, why are you doing THIS?" He gestured around the room, including the report, the pizza, the pen lying on the floor.

Coulson gave Clint a neutral look, one Clint was mentally calling his 'I'm too polite to call you a dumb ass' look. "I'm helping you to get the training you need."

"That's not what I mean and you know it. WHY?"

Coulson stopped smiling. "I started out doing this for a friend. And for someone who left one of my agents alive when it would have been easier to kill her. I continued doing it because I believe in second chances. But now, now the reason is because I'm starting to see beyond the person that Bernard spoke to me about. I'm starting to see glimpses of who you might be."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"I'm seeing a man who takes the time to talk to the people everyone else ignores. I'm seeing a man who goes out of his way to help someone who needs it. I'm seeing a man who is capable of taking the shot, but who doesn't want to. I'm seeing a man who can do the hard things, the difficult things, to keep others safe."

"You're making me sound like some kind of hero. I ain't."

There was that small smile again. "You're no Galahad. But you might be Lancelot."

Clint scowled. "Why can't you just talk like a normal person?"

Coulson chuckled. "I've got a movie for you to watch."

Clint brightened. "Now?"

"After we complete your report."

He huffed out a breath, then started. "Our team approached the target building…"


	8. Chapter 8

The Archer Chapter 8 Not Out of the Woods Yet

Clint knew something was up. As soon as he'd shown up, Borrs had spoken up. "R&D put their heads together and made you a weapon. It's over here."

The range master motioned him over to a table, where a new compound bow sat, with a strange system of two tubes fixed to the bow and the string. The string was attached to a piston in the bottom tube. When he released the string, it pushed the piston in, and a paintball shot out of the top tube. Borrs showed him how to load the hopper with paintballs, and then turned him loose on the range.

It didn't have the accuracy or the firing speed of his real bows, not even close. He had to cock it in between each round, and it was barely accurate to 120 feet. Borrs had laughed at his disgruntled expression. "R&D is proud of themselves for coming up with this at all."

Clint shrugged. "Can we put this on the heaviest bow, see if I can improve the range, at least?"

Working together, it didn't take the two of them long to get the contraption transferred to the heavier bow, which upped Clint's accurate range to 250 feet. He still complained, and Borrs commented "Best the rifles can do is 200 feet, so you've got them there."

"Rate of fire sucks balls."

"Yeah, I can't really convince them that you shoot as fast as you do. I was thinking a live demo might help, so I invited them." Sure enough, about 15 minutes later three nerds showed up in lab coats.

Borrs directed things. "Perkins, Brankovich, Phillips, this is the archer I was talking to you about." He nodded. The nerds looked at Clint, who spoke up.

"Accuracy ain't bad, moved it onto one of my bows and got the distance up. Rate of fire sucks. Fix it."

They frowned and the light haired guy spoke up. "I thought fast rate of fire was for guns. People stopped using bows and started using guns for a reason."

Clint grinned. At least this one was honest. "Naw, guns take less skill, easier for average people to be good. Bows are still better." He thought about it, and then added "Gotta admit, bows have less range in general than rifles, and no spray and pray option. Quieter though. And I'm faster than a bolt action rifle, or most revolvers, just a little slower than a semi-auto, when we're going for accuracy."

The woman (who was definitely Mediterranean but not Greek and he'd have to solve that puzzle later) replied skeptically "You're as fast with a bow as a pistol."

Instead of answering, Clint grabbed five arrows in his left hand and his bow in his right. He turned towards the target and shot all five arrows. The fourth one was in the air before the first one hit. He gave himself a small nod of satisfaction; he'd gained back all of the speed and skill he'd lost. He turned back to the nerds, who had totally different expressions of shock on their faces. Clint grinned.

"Like I said, rate of fire on your bow sucks. Make it better."

That was the start of a gleefully unholy relationship. Phillips, Perkins and Brankovich started spending more and more time at the range, and Clint even took to spending some time with them in their labs at R&D. They never got great at archery, but they were better than the rank amateurs they had started as, and their pistol scores went up dramatically.

They taught him how to play Magic the Gathering, he taught them how to cheat at poker. Brankovich "Call me Jenni" firmly pounded into him the fact that Alexander the Great was Macedonian like her, not Greek. Perkins was just as passionate about the difference between Star Trek and Star Wars. Garth was delighted to find someone else who liked country music, was shocked that Clint didn't know all of the newest stars and set out to "fix his sorely lacking country education." Clint taught them to avoid pickpockets and how to hotwire cars.

They introduced him to Monty Python and James Bond movies. Together, they discovered the Dukes of Hazzard. This rapidly led to the four of them jointly developing exploding arrows, which Borrs promptly banned from the range. These were quickly followed by acid arrows.

One of the things Clint liked most about the time he spent with the trio was that none of them pulled their punches, so to speak. They'd come up with ideas and contraptions, and Clint would take their ideas apart. They'd improve the idea, and he'd destroy their product. By the time they got things right, the idea and the product had been tested and redesigned and retested and broken and fixed.

At the same time, they pushed Clint a lot harder academically than he would have pushed himself. The acid arrows involved Clint learning at least the basics of chemistry, and apparently he couldn't do chemistry without doing that damned math-with-letters algebra shit. That led to the first real crisis; Clint got frustrated when Brankovich tried to help him with algebra. But he didn't understand her explanations, and when she worked things out on paper it only got worse.

He felt like there were huge gaps in between the steps she wrote down, which made him feel dumb, which led to him throwing the books on the floor and walking out of the common room they'd been working in. He'd fully expected to never see any of them again.

Four days later, there was a knock at his door. He opened it to find Emily Ford (the Director of the Education Department), Jenni, and two computer tech people.

Before he could tell them all where they could go, Jenni took command, as she often did. "Barton, shut up and move over. It's obvious I'm no good at teaching algebra, so I went to Director Ford. We had a _great_ talk." She smiled at the older woman. Clint backed up into his room, allowing all of them access, mostly because he was too stunned to come up with a logical reason why he shouldn't go along.

Director Ford took up where Jenni had left off. "We both thought that the traditional methods of teaching algebra do a gross injustice to those people who are kinesthetic learners, like you."

"I'm a what, now?"

The normally stern face of the director lit up in a brief smile. "You're a kinesthetic learner. You learn best with your hands, and by doing, instead of seeing or writing or listening."

Clint had to nod in agreement. "Oh, um, yeah."

Ford continued. "Ms. Brankovich looked over the card game I had developed. She pointed out some flaws,"

Jenni interrupted, "I gave some feedback, that's all!"

Director Ford laughed. "She pointed out some flaws and gave some ideas. I agreed with her that using a computer for this would allow you to work independently, in your own time, without needing to depend on someone else. So I asked Mr. Tucker," the overweight young man with wild brown hair waved from where he was installing something on Clint's computer, "and Mr. Ernal to help us."

"Call me Tyrone, everyone calls us the Two T's, Tyrone and Tucker," the dark skinned computer expert spoke from where he was sitting on top of the desk, watching Tucker's installation of the software.

"I was told that they were the most innovative pair in the computer department. In less than a day, they had my game translated into a computer game. We think there's a real potential for this to work, but now we need a test subject. We need someone to play this through, find any errors or things that are confusing. Most of all, we need someone to tell us if this is fun enough to keep you interested in playing, and if it actually helps you to learn the concepts," explained Director Ford.

It was Jenni's turn. "Honestly Clint, this will help us. We're thinking about publishing this, selling it. It would help a lot of people. And you're a perfect test subject because you're…"

"Dumb?" Clint supplied.

Jenni scowled. "I was going to say stubborn and a kinesthetic learner, but I might change my mind."

"Done!" pronounced Tucker, standing up and gesturing for Clint to take the chair. "Alright, we played it through, but new eyes always see things we miss. Play it a bit, tell us what we need to fix."

With everyone watching him expectantly, there wasn't much Clint could do other than to sit down and give it a try. He found one problem quickly. "Kinda hard to tell the difference between the day cards and the night cards. Can't you make the day ones lighter or something?"

Tyrone looked a bit surprised, then nodded and wrote something down on an electronic gadget that he pulled out of a pocket. "That's exactly the sort of thing we need." He grabbed a pad of paper and wrote on it. "Here's our email addresses. You find anything else, you email us." With that he stood up, gave Tucker a high five, and both of them walked out. Director Ford stood as well, and she gave Clint a card.

"This has my office phone number and email. If you have any questions about any part of the game or if something doesn't make sense, let me know and I'll work with our young gentlemen to get it fixed." With that, she walked out, leaving Jenni sitting on his bed.

Clint looked at her, puzzled. "Why did you do this?"

"Because you're my friend," she said, an exasperated expression on her face.

"I figured I'd got you mad enough that you'd just walk away."

Jenni walked the two steps to where he was sitting and gave him a quick hug. "Friends help each other. I'm sorry I was so bad at it."

"Huh?"

"You needed help, and I was a horrible teacher. I hope you forgive me."

"Jenni, you got Director Ford and two of the computer department to write a computer game just for me, after I yelled at you and threw shit around?" He could feel himself blushing. "I'm the one that's got stuff to be sorry about, not you."

"Bring me cookies, and I'll forgive you. Deal?" She held out her hand and he took it, grinning.

"Deal."

Being able to figure things out on his own, without any sort of judgment (whether real or imagined) helped him a lot. He found himself spending more and more time with the game, and slowly it actually started to make sense. Brankovich got better at explaining the algebra in the chemistry equations and Garth helped him to apply it to real life.

Clint also ended up spending some time with Tucker and Tyrone – it turned out that they both loved paintball. There was some sort of big tournament every year between different departments (field agents weren't allowed to participate) and the computer department always lost. Clint played with them a few times, then started coaching them, and they started improving. They wouldn't take his training class, but Clint assured them that they'd probably beat the legal team.

The work on his paintball bow was slow, but they were making progress. They'd doubled the number of paintballs he could get into the air in a minute (from two to four), but he refused to settle for anything other than his normal rate of fire. So he continued to use a rifle, which he supposed was a good thing, because he was getting better at it.

Far from losing him his three friends, the whole algebra thing had scored him two more. Which was good, because the way things were going with his training, he needed all of the friends he could get.

Like every other afternoon, Clint showed up for Marek's class. Instead of walking to the outdoor range, the paintball field or the mock city, they were divided into random teams. Each team was loaded into a waiting van with blacked out windows. Clint spent quite a few minutes staring at Marek who calmly returned the stare.

"Remember what Coulson told you yesterday?"

Clint did. At the end of their lunch reading session, just as Clint was getting ready to leave, Coulson had told him "Don't panic, and don't argue tomorrow. It's just a training exercise. All of the agents do them."

He'd nodded, puzzled, but Coulson hadn't added to the comment and had waved him out the door. So Clint took a deep breath and got into the van.

They were driven to a location a few hours away and left in the snowy woods with nothing other than what they brought to the expected training session. The team consisted of Clint, Rick Halpern, Hernando Viola, and Ken Tallman, who of course was nicknamed 'Shorty'. They'd been given a map to their extraction point and were told to be there in four days. And with that, they were left on their own.

They all pooled their resources, and between the four of them came up with six granola bars (three of them belonging to Clint) an apple (also Clint's) and a package of tic tacs, along with five water bottles (two of them Clint's). Between the four of them, they had about 30 feet of paracord, six knives, three rifles and Barton's bow, with one quiver holding a dozen arrows.

Rick had taken charge. "Okay, priorities are shelter, water, food, in that order." He looked around. "Anyone see a place to make a shelter?" No one did, so he pointed towards a rock outcropping just visible through a break in the trees. "We head for that. Anyone sees a good spot, let me know."

They spent an hour walking towards the extraction point. Along the way, Hernando found a big sheet of plastic, left over from someone's camping trip or some such, and insisted on bringing it along. Clint had had stranger things turn out to be handy, and Hernando was the one carrying it, so the archer didn't argue.

Shorty found a large tree that had fallen in a storm or something. A big boulder was holding it up off the ground at an angle, sturdy enough that it didn't move even when all four of them climbed up on it and jumped around. The snow on the ground was lighter under the tree, and the ground was covered in pine needles, which made for a much softer bed than the rocks further on. Rick nodded. "This will do. Shorty, get a fire started. Barton, you're with me, getting branches to make a lean-to. Hernando, get some stuff to cover the ground."

"I can get a fire started faster," Clint argued.

Rick turned to look at him, a surprised and questioning look on his face. "It doesn't matter. Help me with the shelter." Clint shook his head, but dropped it.

He helped Halpern gather branches and lean them up against the fallen log, forming a lean to, while Hernando gathered more branches and layered them on the ground. Clint couldn't help shaking his head at Shorty's attempts at fire making, and he asked Rick to be put on fire duty a few more times, but it just seemed to make Rick annoyed, so he eventually gave up, gritted his teeth and finished his job.

Clint was really beginning to see the benefits of working in a team. Four guys made short work of what could often be a long and exhausting task. It didn't take long for them to have the beginnings of a decent shelter.

Except that Hernando didn't think it was good enough. From what Clint knew of survival shelters, you did your best to make a roof that didn't leak (as much) and you kept the front open so heat from the fire warmed it. He and Rick did that. Then Hernando stepped in. He lined the back of the shelter with a mylar survival blanket, and that made sense to Clint. What didn't make sense was draping the plastic across the front. Clint frowned. "Won't that block out the heat from the fire?"

Hernando shook his head. "No, it'll let the light and heat in, and trap it, along with our body heat. Just like a greenhouse."

Clint shook his head. "I don't think it'll work."

"Trust me," said Hernando.

"If I end up snuggling with you because it's too cold in there, I'm gonna be pissed." Hernando laughed.

Clint shrugged and looked at the position of the Sun; he had enough time if he went now.

"Halpern, I'm going to see if I can get us something to eat." He held up his bow.

Rick nodded. "Just don't get lost and make us come looking for you."

"No worries, I won't go far." With that Clint headed out. It didn't take him long to find some squirrels, but waiting for them to get into a spot where he could shoot them and recover his kill took longer. It was dark by the time he had four; good thing his night vision had always been excellent.

The others were gathered around the fire. "Dammit Barton, we were thinking we'd have to come get you!"

He held up his squirrels. "Was gettin' some dinner." In a short time, he had them roasting over the fire. Warm food helped to raise everyone's spirits, and then it was time to crawl into their shelter. Clint was shocked at how warm it was.

Everyone congratulated Hernando, who just smiled. "Simple physics. And thanks to Shorty for the fire."

"Eh, I got it done," Shorty replied. "Thanks to bow boy here for the dinner. Gotta say, that was the first time I've had squirrel."

Halpern turned a critical eye to Clint. "If everyone works together, this is going to work. So no more arguing." Clint gritted his teeth, and said nothing.

The morning dawned cold with red skies. Rick looked up at them worriedly. "Let's prepare for a cold snap. I don't like the looks of those clouds."

Clint asked, "You want me looking for food or helping with the shelter?"

Rick scowled at him before waving him on. "Might as well get you doing something you're good at. The rest of us will work on the shelter. Take the empty water bottles with you; see if you come across a stream or something."

Once again, Clint shut his mouth, and headed out. He knew he wouldn't have much time. Sure enough, by the time the first snowflake started to fall he'd only managed to get two squirrels and a dove. He had managed to find a small creek leading to a tiny pond, where he gathered as many cattail roots as he could. He wasn't all that good with wild plants, since so many tended to be specific to certain places or time of year, but cattails were easy to identify, widespread and had lots of different ways to eat them.

There wasn't enough food to fill anyone up, but everyone did get to eat. Shorty ignored Clint's advice about the cattail roots and ate the whole thing. The others spent part of the rainy afternoon ribbing him about his (literal) belly aching. The shelter was mostly dry and it was considerably warmer than the outside temperatures.

Clint wasn't included much in the conversation, but he didn't really have much to add to it, so he just listened. He'd been able to contribute food, which was something no one else could have done, so he'd made himself useful, and he'd kept his mouth shut the entire day. He'd made it a whole day without screwing up and making anyone angry at him.

So of course it went downhill the next day. Clint was out looking for food again, when a rock turned under his feet. The branch he grabbed broke and that was all it took to tumble him down a short bank into a shallow creek. It was only two feet deep or so, but that was enough to soak him through. He immediately abandoned his hunt and headed back to camp, but by the time he made it back he was shivering violently.

Rick took control. "Into the shelter, strip out of everything that's wet. Hernando, get his clothes drying. Shorty, get him some of that hot water."

Clint was shivering so hard that it was difficult for him to strip but he eventually managed to get down to his boxer briefs. And that was where the trouble started.

Before his time on death row in Arizona, Clint had spent time in the general population in a prison in Iowa. That had led to some extensive tattoos, including a large rebel flag across his back. He didn't know about the others, but he was pretty damn sure that Shorty, being African American, wouldn't really appreciate that one, so he made sure to keep his back to the wall of the shelter.

The tattoo across his chest wasn't as obvious, and no one mentioned anything that night, so he hoped he'd managed to get through the incident without problems. That hope was dashed the next day.

"CB, huh?" Rick said to him when they were out looking for more firewood.

Clint looked over at him. "What?"

"Your chest tattoo. CB."

Clint answered "Yeah, Clint Barton," grabbing hold of a branch and stomping on it to break it into manageable pieces.

"Redneck Pride?"

"Yeah, so?" Clint gathered up an armful of the broken pieces and turned to head back to their camp.

Rick had a nasty look on his face. "I know a Country Boys prison tattoo when I see one."

_Fuck_. Clint shrugged. "I was a stupid young kid. Did some shoplifting, went for a few joyrides."

"Not with that many tats that large. You were in long term. You were convicted of more than some joyride."

Clint tried to walk around him, but Halpern blocked his way. "That was in the past, Halpern. Get out of my way."

Halpern stepped in closer, using his height and bulk to crowd Clint. "You've already caused enough problems. Now I see why. No way you should have made it this far in the training, but you'll fail out sooner or later. Trash like you always does."

_That_ struck home. Clint glared up at him. "I ain't done nothing to you."

"Your stupid pranks on the paintball field are destroying unit cohesion. You're just wasting space in the classes and you're nothing but a bar room brawler in hand to hand. You're a liability and we don't want you. As a matter of fact, I'm surprised Director Fury let you in at all. Does he even know you're here?"

Barton laughed. "Coulson recruited me in prison. So go ahead, tell Fury. You think he doesn't know where his recruits come from?"

Halpern gave a nasty smile. "So what, this is some sort of a second chance for you, isn't it?" Clint was also desperate not to mess this last, best chance at a real life. He refused to react, but Halpern's continued smile showed that he knew.

"Who do you think they're going to believe, you or me? You cause the unit any more trouble, all I have to do is talk about how you came after me. You've caused enough problems. No one likes you. No one's going to stick up for you. It's going to be you versus me, and we both know whose side they're going to rule for."

Clint had no argument for that. He stared at Halpern, but they both knew who had won. Clint eventually turned and walked away, Rick getting in one final word, "You mess up one more time, and I'll get you kicked out of here. Behave yourself, boy, hear me?"

He spent the rest of their time doing his best to keep his head down. At the end of the mission, the other three had grown close, and Clint was more on edge than he'd been before.

The only thing to come out of the mission, in Clint's opinion, was that they all got glowing reviews. Apparently all of the other groups had come through cold, hungry and miserable. Hernando was congratulated for his innovation with the shelter, and Clint's contributions to the food from his hunting was duly noted. Rick, of course, also got a commendation for leadership, along with smiles and claps on the back from Hernando and Shorty. Clint kept his mouth shut.

Things only got worse after that. Clint spent as much time as possible away from the other agents in training after that. He tried to get to the gym and cafeteria during odd hours. Any time he wasn't in his classes, he tried to avoid trouble (he wasn't going to call it hiding it wasn't hiding he was good at hiding).

So the other agents-in-training grew closer, while Clint grew more distant with them. Some of the others seemed relieved, most had already written him off, Rick gloated. The only ones he really got along with were Otter and Sabine, both training to be agents, not specialists. Four people in the class were emerging as leaders and luckily Otter was one of them. As long as he could manage to be in her group, things usually went okay. Not that it was always easy, mind you.

The next time they had a paintball lesson, she pulled him aside. With no preamble, she spoke up, "Clint, are you colorblind?"

Shit, he sighed to himself. Here it started. "Why?"

"Because you're too good of a shot to make mistakes like you make. So you're either bone-headed, or you're colorblind. Which is it?"

_Trust her_, said part of him. She'd done right by him the entire time he'd known her. But far too often in his life, admitting to a weakness had only led to people using it against him.

She said, "It's not that big a deal, you know. I'm pretty sure Candon's colorblind, too. He's making the same sorts of mistakes that you are. I'll take care of it," and then moved off before Clint could stop her. "Agent Marek, may I make a request?"

Their instructor glanced over at her, curious. "What is it, Otter?"

"When you pair up teams, could you not separate red and green? It messes with anyone who's colorblind." Clint looked at her, startled. She gave him a quick wink, but other than that, kept her face impassive.

"Is that so?"

She nodded. "That's why Candon and Barton are responsible for almost all of the friendly fire." She grinned, as if she hadn't just revealed a weakness to the entire class. Halpern looked thoughtful. Clint was furious, but Germaine Candon just laughed.

"Thought I was doing a decent job of telling the difference. I'm not completely red-green colorblind, just mostly."

Sabine poked at Candon. "So that's why you only mostly sucked?" Laughter all around. She turned to Barton. "That was your problem? Just tell us next time, you goon." With that, she moved off.

Marek spoke up. "All right then, red and green groups, you work together today. Blue and yellow, you're the other team." It was a clever solution.

Clint didn't make any mistakes that day. Otter grinned, Marek nodded, Rick looked thoughtful, and Clint was quietly pissed at having his weakness pointed out.

On the plus side (great, now the math was invading his head) he had friends. Kinda. He guessed that was what they were, at any rate. Maybe. Erik and Jenni and Garth spent way more time with him than they needed to. Sure, they ended up talking shop more often than not, but it tended to be over pizza or nachos or subs and drinks. They'd started out in one of the common areas, but one night all of the lounges were full with people watching different games. After the third room full of shouting people in sports jerseys, Jenni spoke up.

"We're never going to find a place. Want to go to my apartment?"

Clint winced. After the first two weeks, agents in training were able to leave the base, but he had no idea what his restrictions were. He rubbed the back of his head uncomfortably as he replied "That's, um, that's not gonna work for me."

Garth's eyes flickered to the tattoos that were just visible peeking out from under Clint's sleeves, but he didn't say anything, just nodded and said "Erik has all the movies, we can go to his quarters."

Erik blushed and admitted "My place is a disaster. I'd have to clean for like, an hour."

"Well then, let's go to your place," Garth said, looking at Clint. The archer didn't have any good reason to say no, and realized that he was kinda looking forward to having people in his space. (not alone not solitary not trapped…)

He gave an uncertain smile and said "Sure, but I don't have any movies, or anything to play them on, or, well really anything."

"My game console can play movies. I'll bring it over," said Erik, moving off immediately.

Jenni and Garth looked at him expectantly, so he moved out and they ended up in Clint's quarters. The advantage of not having much was that it was easy to keep things clean, so that wasn't a worry. Seating was, but the other two cheerfully laid claim to his bed, so he grabbed the desk chair, spun it around and sat on it backwards and ordered the pizza.

Erik soon showed up, and then Garth headed off to meet the pizza delivery guy. Clint noticed that they never left him alone with Jenni, but he wasn't insulted. They really hadn't known each other all that long, and while he wasn't open about his past, some parts of it weren't that hard to figure out. He appreciated the care that the other two men showed around Jenni.

Of course, he could have taken Erik in a heartbeat and Garth wouldn't have taken much longer, even if he had close to a foot in height and about a hundred pounds in weight on Clint, not all of which was muscle. He was pretty sure Garth had been in a few fights, but nothing like Clint had. That wasn't the point, though. The point was that the three R&D's stuck together, and watched out for each other, and Clint got that. He really did. It was good to know that some people still looked out for each other.

They'd all sat on his bed and talked and insulted each other and laughed. When they finished, they tried to hook up the game console that Erik had brought, with increasing levels of frustration. Clint ignored the instructions, as he usually did, Jenni read them out loud and Erik and Garth argued with each other and complained about how the directions made no sense.

Eventually Clint called for help. Tyrone and Tucker had the system hooked up and running and were kicking everyone's butts in no time at all. Tyrone had taken the desk chair, Tucker had joined Erik and Jenni on the bed, insisting that "that flimsy little chair isn't built to hold someone of my size or awesomeness" and Clint, for lack of anywhere else, was sitting on top of the dresser.

The game session went on into the early hours, and for once in his life, Clint Barton felt like things had gone well. For once, he could honestly say he'd had a good day.

A/N:

I fully realize that to some people, the rebel flag is used as a symbol of pride and heritage. I also fully realize that to other people, it is a symbol of hate. What we see here in this chapter is Clint's fear that someone else will take it as a symbol of hate and judge him accordingly.

I made up the prison gang of the Country Boys, although I wouldn't be surprised to hear that a similar group exists.

Paintball bow .

Paracord bracelet id/Paracord-bracelet-with-a-side-release-buckle/

A traditional lean to shelter leanto

Ken's super shelter watch?v=EvKLOMgtM1Q

Cattails cattails-a-survival-dinner/

Clint's back tattoo. I picked this one because I already know what his cover up tatt is going to be, and I needed something that would fit it. **chuckles** And yes this is on an arm. Work with me here.


	9. Observations

Chapter 9 – Observations

"It _was_ a good idea. We just needed a distraction," Clint continued the argument.

Otter threw a French fry at him. Clint, being Clint and never being one to waste food, caught it in his mouth. She rolled her eyes at him and said in a long suffering voice, "We had no way to _cause_ a distraction and SHUT UP, Barton! For the last time, no, I'm not ever going to let you sacrifice yourself!"

"It's a fuckin' game, Otter. Worst I woulda got was a few bruises."

She frowned. "Well the point of the game is training for the field. We need to learn to think on our feet. I'm not going to get lazy and I'm not letting any of your idiots get lazy either."

"In the field we'd have flash bangs and shit like that." Clint looked almost gleeful at the thought.

"But still no way to deliver them to the other side of that compound."

They both turned back to their food. Clint was still appreciative of a steady supply of food that was actually good. Most of the other trainees and agents complained about the cafeteria food, but he never did. Some days he still reveled in the novelty of being able to walk down to the cafeteria. Add to that the fact that sometimes he had company, like today, and it was more than he'd dreamed of for a long time.

"BARTON!" He jumped and spun around in his seat as three voices yelled his name in unison.

"We did it! We did it!" yelled Jenni, as she stood triumphantly at the doors to the cafeteria, Garth and Erik appearing behind her.

Garth rolled his eyes as Erik admitted, "We _think_ we did it. It fires as fast as we can pull the string, but we have no idea if it will keep up with you."

"So come on!" Jenni was bouncing up and down.

Clint turned to Otter. "Wanna come with us?"

"To _what_?" she asked, perplexed.

"To see if they finally got my bow right," he mumbled around a mouthful of fries, grabbing the burger in his other hand.

"Your…what?" she said, still sounding confused even as she dealt with their trays.

"C'mon, you'll see." She shook her head, but followed them with a smile on her face.

The Nerd Third had already set everything up at the range, with Rangemaster Borrs looking on. Clint grabbed the bow with an almost boyish expression of delight.

"We've got ten paintballs in it, go shoot!" Erik make shooing motions. Clint laughed, picked a target, and five seconds later the hopper was empty, the target covered in paint. The Trio burst into cheers and hugs, while Borrs gave Clint an approving nod.

"Okaaaay, so, that was, cool, I guess," said Otter, looking very confused. "But what does that have to do any sort of reality?"

Garth hooted as Erik asked "Haven't you ever seen him shoot?"

"Yeah, with a rifle."

Clint just grabbed some arrows and counted out ten of them, then looked at Otter. Without taking his eyes off of her, he fired all ten in the same five seconds that the paintballs had taken. The only difference was that his accuracy was much, much better with the arrows.

Otter was speechless. Clint gave her a nod, then turned his attention to where Jenni, Garth and Erik were hovering.

"Well, do you like it? Is it good enough?" He nodded and they all clapped each other on the back, congratulating each other.

"Now all we have to do is solve the remote detonation problem on the explosive arrows and we'll be hailed as _geniuses_!" Erik chortled.

"Wait!" Otter's voice cut through the celebration. "Wait, wait, wait!" The others all turned to look at her. "Did you say _explosive_ arrows?"

Garth nodded.

"You can deliver explosives, consistently? What sort of range are you talking about?" she asked.

Clint spoke up. "You need me to take out a door, 100 meters. Want me to just scare the shit out of a patrol, I'm good up to 200 meters."

Jenni looked at Otter. "What are you thinking?"

"Can you make me flash bangs?" she asked.

Jenni nodded.

"Smoke grenades."

Jenni gave that a moment of thought, then nodded again, a smile on her face. "I like the way you think."

"Shaped charges?"

Erik answered that one. "Same problem we're having with the explosive arrows; the detonators are giving us trouble. We don't have a way to set them off remotely yet. Right now, they go off as soon as they hit."

Garth added, "And we don't have much of a payload yet."

"Give me time to get stronger, I can start pulling a stronger bow, that'll add either payload or distance," Clint said.

Otter nodded at him, but stayed focused on Jenni. "What else can you do?"

"We're working on grappling arrows, taser arrows, flares…" Jenni started rattling off a list of things, only half of which Clint had heard of.

Otter frowned. "How are we going to fit all of those arrows on him?"

Erik answered that one. "I'm working on a quiver. Normal arrows in two main compartments, specialty arrows arranged around the outside. If we always keep the same things in the same place, he should be able to learn the placement by muscle memory."

The four of them looked at Clint. "That'll work," he said.

Otter waved at him absent mindedly. "Yeah, get to work on that, Barton. Bigger muscles, bigger quiver, right. My girl and I, we gotta talk." Otter turned back to Jenni. "Could you put a video camera on an arrow, broadcasting back to us?" They walked off, deep in conversation.

Garth looked at Clint. "Introducing the two of them was either the most awesome thing ever, or we just created a supervillian."

Otter proved she wasn't out of earshot by shooting them a bird before she and Jenni turned the corner.

Clint showed up to the next paintball practice with his new bow. Niko and Viper, the two snipers, just shook their heads. Shorty added, "Man, you are weird as fuck."

Halpern looked at him disdainfully, then turned to Marek. "Seriously, he obviously has no respect for this class or his fellow trainees. How long are we going to have to put up with this, sir?"

"Ask me that again at the end of today's class," said Clint smugly.

"A _bow_? What's next, he's going to throw rocks at us?" Rick replied with indignation.

"You know, you can take your attitude and …"

"That's _enough_, Barton, and you too, Halpern," interrupted Marek. "Every agent in training is allowed to use their preferred weapon. So pick yours up! Alright, team leaders are Otter, Halpern, Leiber and Viper."

Otter spoke up before any of the others could, "I'll take Barton." Halpern muttered something about Robin Hood but Clint didn't care. This was going to rock.

A flash bang distracted one group long enough for Sabine to take down Leiber (and how the hell Jenni had gotten one small enough to fit his paintbow was something that had the archer amazed). Clint took out Viola, Standish and Viper directly, and laid down enough suppressive fire to help Otter and Shorty take down Halpern, Gutierrez and Candon. Through sheer luck, the one grenade arrow Clint lobbed across the compound at courtyard took out Fukioka. At the end of the day, as the Sun started setting, Barton's group won and he was awarded points for four kills of his own and half points for four others.

Everyone except Otter was in an uproar. Shorty summed it up. "There's no way he can pull that stuff off in actual combat. I don't want to be an ass, but there's just no way any of this was realistic."

Candon snorted. "I'll say what everyone else is thinking. This was some sort of set up, to make us like that asshole. It's bullshit."

Marek just gave that all knowing smirk they had all come to dread. "Barton. Earn your points." He held out a quiver of arrows.

Clint was already stripping the paintball tubes from the front of his bow. He took the quiver and set it on his back. "Shorty, put a paintball on one of those trees." Shorty hit the tree a few times before a paintball broke. Clint put three arrows in the mark, then continued, "I'll admit the grenade was a spray-and-pray, but ain't that the point of a grenade?" Standish and Fujioka looked at each other and nodded.

Clint took off his sunglasses. "Someone throw some paintballs in the air."

"How many do you want?" asked Shorty.

"I dunno, never tried this. Start out with three." Clint was lying through his teeth. He knew he could hit seven consistently. But he hadn't wasted his time in the circus. He knew how to be a showman. Shorty duly tossed three paintballs in the air and Clint skewered each of them with an arrow, making certain to space them out so that the last one hit its target with only two feet to spare between it and the ground. Someone whistled. Clint laughed. "Want to try five?"

Viola grabbed five paintballs and gave them an anemic toss. Clint never even raised his bow. "Wanna try that again with a _real_ throw?"

He did, this time getting the paintballs 15 feet or so into the air. Clint put an arrow through each one, then turned to face his classmates.

Viper spoke first. "Fancy shooting. But can you do what it takes, when it counts. Can you look at a person and put an arrow into them?"

Clint answered quietly but quickly. "Yeah."

"Sound pretty sure of it."

Barton didn't answer

Viper spoke quietly. "How old were you?"

"19. Bet you weren't much older."

"I was 23, an old man," Viper said, looking at the arrows laying on the ground. "Is that why you think you're better in a city situation?"

Clint nodded seriously. "You're better than me in the woods, I know that. Probably better in cities in the middle of fightin', too. But working in a normal city, getting close to people in hotels and such, yeah, guessing I'm better at that. I just ain't no good at saying things without pissin' people off."

"You got that straight," Viper agreed. He looked at Clint again. After a moment, the younger man dropped his eyes and then turned to stare off into the woods. Viper asked, "Why did you do it?"

Clint shrugged, still not meeting his eyes. "Needed to eat." He thought for a moment, then admitted. "Made some stupid choices."

Rick Halpern finally exploded, "He's a hit man?! Why is he wasting a spot in our class?!"

Marek cut him off. "SHIELD is a second chance for a lot of people, Halpern. We've got agents with dishonorable discharges, prison records, you name it. Granted, not most of us, but there are enough of them that you need to come to grips with it. We judge people based on their performance with us, not mistakes they made when they were young." Halpern stormed off.

Turning to Marek, Viper said, "He can make the shots. If you think he'll take them in the field, I'm not going to argue it." He turned back to Clint. "Barton, you mess with me or mine, and I'll put an end to you. But you treat this like the second chance it is, and you and I are good. I'm not saying we're friends, but other than not telling anyone about being colorblind and being an arrogant 23 year old, you haven't done anything for me to think you're going to be a problem. Don't disappoint me."

"Do my best."

"Do better than that. Do your job," Viper said, then walked off to take care of his gear.

"I've heard some interesting rumors recently," was Coulson's opening salvo as Barton walked into the office with his lunch.

Barton carefully placed his food on the table, then fell onto the couch, managing to convey anger, tenseness, and world-weariness all at the same time. "What now?"

"There's been talk that you might have some issues about working with minorities."

Clint scowled. "Talk from who?"

"A few people."

He took a deep breath. "Any complaints from someone that I ain't treated the same as everyone else?"

Coulson shook his head. "No, and that's why I'm just asking. SHIELD has personnel from a lot of different countries. If I had any real thought that you would have problems with that, I'd send you back and move on. Can you explain why these rumors are starting now?"

"Halpern, Shorty and Hernando saw my tatts. Halpern jumped to some conclusions," Clint replied, gritting his teeth.

Coulson nodded. "I see. How identifiable are they?"

"One's from a prison gang, the other's an eagle with a rebel flag."

"Do you understand how some people might interpret that?" Coulson conceded.

Barton answered defensively, "I'm a short guy with blond hair and blue eyes, in prison for life! Standing on my own wasn't an option. It was the Country Boys or the Nazis, didn't wanna go with the Nazis. Started life out thinking that shit was right, on account of the Old Man, but Carson's taught me better. Country Boys wasn't like that. Yeah, some of 'em were racist but most of them were just rednecks like me."

Phil nodded. That matched up with the research he had done on his own. "Your options are to keep the tattoos, cover them up, or remove them. Neither of them is particularly distinctive, so SHIELD won't require you remove them. The two of them together do identify you, but frankly I think your preferred weapon is a greater identifier."

"I don't want shi…" at Coulson's disapproving look Clint amended it to "stuff like to keep coming up."

"In that case, I would highly recommend removal of anything that shows in a short sleeved shirt, however, as it does make you look unprofessional. Think about getting the back piece removed or covered up. The front one is your choice. It's obscure enough that most people won't recognize it immediately. "

"Halpern did," Clint said, kicking at the coffee table.

"I said most. And stop it, that table has done nothing to you."

"I'll think about it."

"It's your call," Coulson noted. "Now, start reading."

"Contrary to popular opinion, being a sniper is a hell of a lot more than simply being an excellent shot. Good marksmen aren't actually all that difficult to find. While a sniper _must_ be ready to take that shot, they're just as likely to find themselves being used for forward information gathering. A sniper, by his very nature, is able to insert himself into enemy territory and remain hidden, for days at a time if needed, while he gathers intelligence and relays it back to the commanders," Marek told Clint over breakfast in the cafeteria. "Those who are going to be field agents don't need the same sort of training, and both Niko and Viper have already had it. That leaves you as the odd man out who _does_ need that training."

Clint was well aware of that.

"In addition, most snipers work in pairs, with a spotter. One of our spotters just asked for a reassignment, so we have a sniper who's open. I'd like you to start working with him on a training basis," Marek continued.

Clint asked, "Gonna be assigned to him full time?"

"Depends on how the two of you get along," Marek gave him a searching look.

They ate in silence for a little while, then Marek whistled loudly and waved an arm lazily at someone who had just entered the cafeteria. A dark skinned man who was only a few inches taller than Clint (and wasn't that unusual) nodded in acknowledgement, then went to collect his breakfast. Making his choices swiftly, he sat down at the table with them.

"Ivory, this is Clint Barton. He's a more than decent shot, and he's not as hopeless in the woods as a lot of our recruits, but he needs work. Clint, this is Ivory Hedley. He's one of our best snipers. He'll teach you a lot, so shut up and listen to him. Don't piss him off."

Hedley took a bite of his toast and looked at Clint. Clint looked back, doing his best to not look hostile. Hedley spoke. "I hear you're a hotshot with a bow."

"Ain't found anyone better yet," Clint agreed.

Hedley continued the steady look. "A few years back, I was on a team that was hunting a contract killer. Went by The Archer."

Clint drank some coffee while he tried to sort out his feelings on that one. He shrugged and met Hedley's eyes. "Why didn't you take the shot?"

"Never got a chance. Guy was good at blending into crowds, using available cover. Never even really saw him until my team pulled him out of that Turkish warehouse. He looked pretty messed up."

Clint still had nightmares about those hours in that warehouse. He just nodded.

"Heard he went to prison."

"Coulson figured I'd be of more use here."

Hedley nodded. "If we can get you as invisible in the woods as you are in a city, you'll be fantastic."

"I've been hunting for years. I know my way around the woods."

Hedley chuckled. "We'll see about that. You stalk your game, or shoot from a blind?"

Clint blinked at that answer. "Blind," he answered, as if the answer was obvious.

Smiling knowingly, Hedley said, "I've met plenty of hunters. Some are as good as they thought they were. Most weren't." He stood and picked up his tray. "Are we going to sit here all day talking, or do you want to actually go do something?"

Clint thought he would never ask.

It turned out that Clint wasn't as good as he had thought he was. Next to Hedley, who was quieter than most woodland animals, Clint felt like some bumbling, clumsy drunk. He fell onto a pile of leaves at their next water break, cursing when he landed on a stick. Ivory just laughed.

"How the hell do you do that?" Clint whined.

"Stop trying to be fast. Think about it. What animals have we seen today?"

"Squirrels. Rabbit. Those four deer."

"Three deer," Hedley corrected absently.

"No, there was another one behind them," Barton insisted.

Ivory shook his head. "You got some freaky eyesight. You keep seeing animals that just plain blend in."

Clint didn't comment that to him, the animals stood out pretty well.

Ivory continued, "Which one of those is the loudest?"

Clint answered right away. "Easy, squirrel."

"Yep," Ivory agreed. "Why?"

"They're always running up and down the trees, claws dragging on the bark."

"They're noisy on the ground, too."

Clint grinned ruefully. "They run around on the ground, too, make a racket on the dead leaves."

"Which one of those is the quietest?"

"Rabbit. I swear, I'm gonna start calling you Rabbit. And before you ask, it's because they sit tight for a long time, just looking, then move slow when they think it's safe."

"Rabbit's taken," Ivory laughed. "I noticed you don't have a nickname yet. Do you need me to start calling you Squirrel?"

Clint cursed. "You do that, I'll never live it down."

"Then don't earn the name!" Ivory laughed.

'Slow is faster' became Clint's new mantra. After a while, it started to sink in to most of the aspects of his life. He slowed down in his reading, and made fewer mistakes. This encouraged him to try more, and more practice led to better reading. His handwriting became actually legible, although it remained a blocky print in almost exclusively capital letters and his spelling was marginal at best.

More successes led to more chances for positive reinforcement. At first Barton scoffed and acted like it didn't matter. Coulson tried to get him to accept the praise, but that seemed to make him uncomfortable. As was so often the case with Barton, the key was food. He would happily accept small rewards of a cookie or donut for reading a book with no errors, although Phil had to be careful with that one. Barton was often able to memorize the short books after one reading. Phil called him out on that, and he readily admitted to it, grinning proudly at being able to pull one over on the agent.

One memorable day, Barton finished his book with a loud whoop and spun it through the air to land on top of the bookshelf.

"Done!"

Phil raised one eyebrow. "Yes, you did an excellent job of reading that."

"No, that was the last book! I read all of them!" the archer crowed.

Phil hesitated for a moment, trying to think of a way to tell him that he was not, in fact, finished reading. Before he said anything, however, Barton sat up (his customary reading position was lying face down on the couch, with the book on the floor) and rolled his eyes before putting on his garish purple sunglasses.

"I _know_ there's other books, and I ain't done readin', but I'm done with _these_!" he gestured at the shelf with the beginner's books. "C'mon, ya gotta give me something for that!"

Coulson stood up immediately. "Pie or cupcakes?"

Barton blinked for a moment, then all but vibrated in contained excitement. Still, his answer came out hesitantly, almost question-like. "Cupcake?"

"Let's go."

Within ten minutes, Coulson was pulling up next to a bakery called Flour Child. Inside was a dizzying array of cupcakes, and predictably, the archer acted like a child in a candy store. Barton took longer to choose his cupcake than it had taken them to drive to the bakery, and Coulson had to tell him more than once not to touch the glass front of the display case. In the end, he chose a Devil's Heart cupcake, so rich in chocolate and fudge that it was nearly black, dripping with red raspberry sauce. The sounds he made as he ate nearly crossed the border into inappropriately sexual.

Only decades of experience kept Coulson from blushing. "I'm never feeding you one of those in public again."

"S'okay, sir, cupcakes like this are like women, they need to be handled in private. And preferably two at a time."

"Stop there."

Of course he didn't. "There were these twins, that did this trapeze act, and they got me in their trailer once. We were…"

"If you finish that sentence I will revoke all of your range time for a week."

Barton just grinned and bought another cupcake.

The math game proved to be another success. Within two months, Clint was comfortable doing algebra. The first time he corrected Jenni's math, he made her drive the Nerd Third and himself to Flour Child. He paid for two cupcakes for each of them, Garth bought coffee for all of them (except for Erik, who only drank soda) and they had a celebration right there in the bakery.

Things progressed well with Ivory as well. As time passed, a mutual respect started to form. Clint started sharing stories about his time in the circus, and Hedley talked about his time working with juvenile offenders, trying to help them lead successful lives. Clint thought that would make things uncomfortable, and started clamming up, but Ivory always seemed to have a sense of compassion for the kids in his charge. He never spoke about them disparagingly, although he was obviously upset about the ones that didn't turn their lives around.

One day, Clint admitted that he had been in juvie. Hedley just nodded and said, "I kinda thought so." He never brought it up again, and Clint started to relax again.

Ivory continued to work with him on stalking and observation. He was insistent that Clint had to make his own ghillie suit. Clint already knew some simple hand sewing for repair and replacing sequins, but he'd never made his own costumes. With Hedley's help, Clint learned how to sew using a sewing machine, reading a pattern and selecting the right fabric to be tough but breathable. Choosing fabrics did lead to a moment when Hedley looked at him as if he was insane. Clint put the camo fabric down and chose another one. Ivory laughed, "Yeah, that's definitely a better choice."

Clint laughed and pretended it was all a joke.

Once the suit was made, Ivory taught him how to use local vegetation to cover the suit in order to blend in. After practicing on their own, they started stalking students in Marek's morning classes, who were encouraged to hit the two snipers with paintballs. It took many, many bruises for Clint to learn to slow down even more in his stalk. When he was able to wait patiently by a trail quietly enough and still enough to catch a wild rabbit with his hands, Ivory declared that his stalking training was complete. Clint called his feat "fucking brilliant." Ivory declared it to be "sufficient." Coulson bought Clint a cupcake.

The observation portion of his training consisted of getting into places unseen, watching 'enemy' numbers and movements, determining patterns and making predictions. As always, Clint brought his own certain spin to things.

In a move that Clint thought was patently unfair, Coulson and Hedley started working together to come up with his training assignments. For the third one, they assigned Clint to watch over a hunt club that was a few miles away from SHIELD headquarters to see if he could determine how many rooms were in the main building and what each room was used for. Clint was give the mission packet on Thursday night and told to hand in his report by Monday morning. He dropped it on Coulson's desk during lunch on Friday. It consisted of a pre-printed packet, with fees and rules and responsibilities for members. The last page was a calendar of game seasons and club events. Stapled onto the front was a hand drawn map of the clubhouse.

Coulson looked up at Barton expectantly. Barton, who was dressed in camo head to toe, flopped down on the couch and grinned.

"What exactly did you do?" asked Coulson.

"Drove up the clubhouse, said I was interested in joining and spent an hour talking to 'em. Got this nice packet and everything. Wandered around for a bit while we were talking. Got to see the grounds, look at tree stands and duck blinds. Nice set up. Might join."

Coulson frowned. "Your mission was to test your stalking and observational skills."

"No, my mission was to get information," Clint scowled. "I got it the fastest way I could. More accurate, too."

"Undercover work is dangerous and difficult."

Clint scoffed, "If there's a cover I know how to play, it's a country boy who likes to hunt. This was a cake walk."

"None of your clothing is new. I know you didn't come in with it, and you haven't had time to break in new gear," Coulson said in his `I'm saying this to lead you to a lesson' voice.

"Bought it used at a Goodwill," Clint said smugly, his accent creeping back in.

The disapproval was apparent in Coulson's voice. "The wear is wrong, it doesn't match your body. Those are the kinds of details that will get you caught."

"I know that. You act like I ain't done this before. Told 'em a sob story about my ex-wife cleaning me out, just to spite me, and taking all my money for child support. Even had pictures to show 'em, if they asked." Clint pulled out a cheap phone and showed Coulson pictures of two blond haired, blue eyed children playing at a playground, at a birthday party, and sledding.

Coulson wrinkled his brow. "Are those…"

"Sabine's nieces. I had her forward me some pictures." Barton held the phone up to his face, as if to point out the obvious similarities.

"Only three pictures?"

"Ex-wife broke my old phone. But I get them every other weekend, so I'll get more. And I asked about bringing them along if they wanted to come."

Coulson raised an eyebrow. "And when they don't come along?"

Barton sat up. "Do you want me to get the membership? 'Cause if not, then I'll call and say I talked things over with the girls, and I'm going to put the money away to take 'em to Disney. If you do, then I talked things over with them, and they decided that they don't want to come. I think that's the ex-wife talking, but I'm not gonna drag 'em hunting. It'll just really cut down on my hunting time."

Coulson realized that continuing this would really only be arguing for the sake of enforcing orders over objectives, which was the opposite of what they were trying to do with Barton. The archer had indeed achieved the goal he'd been given, he'd just done it in an unorthodox manner. The Agent made a quick notation in Barton's file to be very clear about mission objectives as well as things that were or were not acceptable, and another notation to perhaps give him some free rein as to how he achieved mission objectives, then gave him a smile. "It sounds like you did a thorough job of building this identity. You can't always count on this sort of thing, though."

"Naw, not always, but often enough."

"Here, have a cookie," Coulson said as he tossed a small pack of Oreos. He'd learned that having them on hand often helped to end arguments before they started. The power of positive discipline.

Clint was also learning how to be Hedley's spotter. His job was to sit behind Hedley with a spotter's scope, larger and more powerful than the scope on the rifle, calling out where the shots went. The polarized lens in the scope allowed him to see the vapor trails the bullets left in the air, which Clint had declared to be "amazingly cool". They spent time every evening on the range after Marek's class was over. There wasn't much time until twilight shut them down, but they made the most of the time they had. Clint sat behind Ivory and used his scope to sight down the barrel of Ivory's rifle (in reality, as close to down the barrel as he could get.)

At least, that was what he supposed to do. Ivory glanced back one evening and saw that Clint wasn't using the scope and had his purple sunglasses on.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked angrily.

Clint seemed startled by the anger. "Um, spotting for you?"

"Then keep spotting and use the scope!"

"There's a big smudge across the lens!" Clint reacted defensively.

"Why did you touch the lens?! I've told you…" Ivory started.

Indignantly Clint interrupted, "I didn't do it, it was that way when we started!"

"Then how have you been calling my shots?"

"I've just been watching. The sunglasses are polarized."

"Yeah, but…" Hedley looked at him thoughtfully. This made Clint nervous.

Sure enough, two days later Coulson met him at breakfast and took him to medical.

Author's Notes:

Clint's handwriting /LanceGutin/Keith-Haring-quote-in-his-own-handwriting

How well are snipers trained to conceal themselves?

watch?v=HMdBph0M0CI no ghillie suit

watch?v=0UoWBYokC2g ghillie suits

watch?v=w_TEur7T-KM how to make a ghillie suit

watch?v=xpBPQkZQGoo making a blind

I'm not kidding about spotters looking for a bullet's vapor trail .


	10. I See Your True Colors

Author's Note: Warning of Clint thinking about killing people, dark thoughts about himself, self doubt. Non-explicit mention of internet porn. Scientific/medical inaccuracies and I really hope I don't offend anyone with my comic book science rendition of a rare rod/cone condition.

The Archer Chapter 10 I See Your True Colors Shining Through

"Has he ever seemed sensitive to light?" the doctor asked.

Marek and Borrs both nodded. Borrs spoke up, "The first day, when I let him get a pair of shooting glasses, he picked some that were dark tinted. He asked if he could keep him. I rarely see him without them."

Marek looked over at him. "So that's where he got those. He wears them constantly. I asked him about it once, he said that things are really bright without them. I've made him run a course without them, though, and he did fine. Little slower than normal, but well within what I thought was reasonable. Didn't think it was an issue."

Dr. Austin asked his next question, "How is his distance vision?"

This time it was Hedley who spoke up. "Freakishly good. I've been testing him out. We were 40 feet up in a tree, he was seeing bugs on the ground. I called bullshit, climbed down to check. Damned if there wasn't a bug in every exact spot he said. When we're in the woods, he sees animals before I do, sometimes a long time before I do. He says they just stand out to him. He told me his name in the circus was Hawkeye. I've got to say, it fits. Been calling him that."

The ophthalmologist wrote down some notes as he asked, "Any issues with colors?" Everyone nodded.

"We were making his ghillie suit, and he tried to pick out camo with orange in it. He laughed it off like it was a joke and at first I figured it was, but now I'm thinking he didn't see the orange. I've known some people with color blindness, but none of them would have mixed up orange and black or brown," Hedley commented.

"He gets red and green armbands mixed up, but that's all I've noticed, and he's not the only one, so I didn't think it was a big deal," added Marek. "Seems fine with the blue and yellow ones." He frowned. "Gets the green and yellow paintballs mixed up, though."

Coulson spoke up for the first time, "His reading books are color coded by level. Once we got past the yellow level 1 books, he started picking books in different levels. I've had to put away the levels that are too far above his current ability. I'm ashamed to say that I never made the connection, but colorblindness could explain it." He continued, "Is that going to cause an issue with his duties?"

Marek shook his head No. "We've done a few activities with him and the other two snipers. I gave him pictures of a target, and then had him find the person. He's been 100% accurate with people. He's not going to be identifying people with armbands and paintballs on actual missions, so I've green lighted him for field work."

Dr. Austin continued to take notes throughout, adding, "I really have no idea how to instruct you on this case, so we're going to have to go on your observations, and my best guesses. I've never seen anything like this, and neither has anyone else I've contacted."

Phil turned to the doctor, "What exactly do you guess is going on with his vision?"

"I'll skip the technical details as much as I can, although frankly I'm going to be writing a paper on this case. Here's the short version. Bad news, he has an extremely rare condition called Blue Cone Monochromacy, which means he's almost completely colorblind. As far as I can tell, he only has rods and blue cone cells."

Borrs frowned. "What does that mean?"

"He can see blue, and maybe purple. I think. Other than that, he doesn't see color at all, everything is grayscale. He's using his rod cells more than the rest of us are, so he's very light sensitive. That's why he always has sunglasses." The doctor focused his attention on Marek. "You said he can tell the difference between the yellow and green armbands, but mixes up the paintballs in those colors. Are the paintballs dark yellow and light green?"

Marek nodded and the doctor continued. "I think he guesses that what he sees as light grey is what other people call yellow. If you've got a yellow that registers as darker than the green, he's going to get them reversed." He cleared his throat. "This condition is extremely rare, but it does occur. However, his case is extraordinary and probably unique. There is an area in your eye called the fovea. This is the only area that is really in focus. Your fovea has only red and green cones, no rods, no blue cones."

Borrs frowned. "So wouldn't that mean that his doesn't work? 

Dr. Austin nodded. "Most people with BCM are legally blind. He's got the opposite; his vision's the best I've ever seen. The only guess I have, and this _is_ a guess, is that where most people have red and green cones, his have replaced with blue ones. He actually seems to have _more_ cones in his fovea than most people. His numbers are closer to a bird of prey than what's average for a human."

"So what exactly does that mean?" asked Borrs.

"You're viewing the world on a color tv, but it's a crappy analog one. His is HD, but it's black and white," answered Dr. Austin. "You've really got to think of him as seeing only grays."

"Will he be able to do his job?" Phil asked, being careful not let any emotion show.

The doctor shrugged. "The best I can give is a resounding I don't know. That's why I called all of you in. You know better than I do whether or not he can do this."

Ivory didn't hesitate. "He can do it. His vision without a scope is almost as good as mine with a scope."

Dr. Austin commented, "I have no doubt that the saw those bugs. There's a good chance he saw others that he didn't point out to you. At 40 feet, he might, note I'm saying _might_, be able to see an ant moving."

Borrs nodded more slowly, "I don't know how he operates in the field. But his accuracy with a rifle is very good, and with his bow he's phenomenal."

Marek considered the longest before putting in his opinion. "It's not like we're going to be wearing colored armbands to distinguish SHIELD teams from our targets. But you can't tell me that it isn't going to affect him."

"Oh it affects him. He sees red and black as the same color. Red lettering on a black background is going to be invisible to him, for example. Color coded wires, lights in certain colors – it's all going to be tough, if not impossible for him. But he's been living like this for his entire life," said the doctor.

"What adjustments are we going to need to make for him?" asked Agent Coulson.

"There's been good luck with using magenta lenses. The red component blocks out most of the light that is too bright for him, but it allows the blue through that he needs for day vision. Other than that, don't color code things. Don't give him directions like 'Next to the red car.' He's going to have problems determining which fruit are ripe, although I'm not certain that's going to be an issue in his line of work. As for anything else, I think we're going to have to play it by ear."

"Mass, Jupiter, are you in position?" Two affirmatives came over the comms. Agent Coulson continued making certain everything was ready for tonight's meeting. "Hawkeye, tell me when you reach a good position."

"Already here, Voice," Clint replied. He had a difficult time keeping the grin out of his voice. It felt good to finally be on a real mission. He'd been on a few observation missions with Ivory, which probably were important, but they didn't _feel_ important. He'd done plenty of tailing his targets, he knew the power of observing, but when he was on his own he'd _done_ something with the information he gathered. Here, he told Coulson what they saw and then wrote it down, and that was the last he did with it.

It felt like a pointless exercise. So being here on a roof with his bow in his hand felt good. Tonight an undercover agent, codename Rabbit, was going to make an important deal with a suspected HYDRA cell. Mass and Jupiter were there to provide obvious muscle. He was there to provide covert back up.

He kept having to remind himself that here his job was to look just about everywhere except at his main focus, which was taking some getting used to, but even that wasn't too far off from what he was used to. He'd taken down some rich and important targets, people who had plenty of security. He was used to looking for hidden people.

Go time.

Rabbit walked into view, with his two hulking body guards bracketing him. Clint had already figured out sight lines and started scanning for movement in likely spots. His smile morphed into something a little darker as he found the first hidden gun man.

Clint hadn't survived as long as he had as a contract assassin by assuming the best of people. So when the figure in the shadows raised his rifle, Clint made a judgment call and loosed the arrow. The figure crumpled. The three SHIELD agents walked on, unaware.

Over the course of the meeting, Clint took down one more gunman. He didn't pay much attention to what was going on between Rabbit and the person he was there to meet, but Coulson eventually came over the comm line.

"He's too nervous. Something's up. Don't run yet, but wrap this up and let's get out of here."

Things got heated and then, just as Rabbit turned and started walking away, more armed men came out from positions on the ground. Clint pulled ten arrows, but there was no way he was going to be able to take all of them down before at least one of them would hit one of the agents he was there to protect.

Rabbit proved his worth that night. His indignation was evident even from Clint's removed location. Whatever the hell he said, the goons on the ground backed down, the target kept talking and by the end of everything, they shook hands and Mass walked out with a heavy box. As soon as they reached their vehicles, Clint scrambled.

Later that night, everyone sat around in Coulson's hotel room, cradling coffee and in various stages of undress in their field gear (Clint) or their undercover clothes (everyone else). Coulson was still fully dressed in his suit. Of course.

Rabbit was talking. "He just kept getting more and more nervous. It was like there was something that he was expecting."

"Agent Barton, did you see anything that might have explained this?" Coulson asked.

"Probably the two guys they had set up to take you out," Clint replied matter of factly.

Rabbit gave him some sort of look. "You should have called that in. It's a moot point, since you didn't have to fire, but next time let me know so I can arrange to deal with variables like that."

Barton managed to not roll his eyes. "I dealt with your variables. Nothing happened."

Rabbit spoke up. "What do you mean, you dealt with them?"

"They were lining up shots. I took them out," Clint responded. The stunned looks made him smirk. "So now you know the first reason I prefer my bow – silence. Shit would have gone differently if everyone heard gunshots, right?"

Mass started, "Rookie agents aren't supposed to fire without - "

Clint interrupted, "If you didn't want someone to fire when needed, you should have sent someone equipped with binoculars. You asked for a sniper, you got a sniper, and all three of you walked out alive."

"Why didn't you tell us?" asked Rabbit.

Clint shrugged. "Wasn't sure how good your acting was, if you'd give somethin' away."

Coulson fixed him with a serious expression. "Next time, tell me. We all need to trust each other to do our jobs, which we can't do if we don't have all of the information."

Nodding, Clint acquiesced. "Sorry then. I'll make sure I speak up next time."

"I'm sure you will. Unfortunately, you did leave a distinctive calling card, so that something we're going to have work around."

Clint snorted. "The hell I did! I grabbed the arrows. Didn't use broad heads, so the shaft seals the wound up pretty well. I glued the wounds shut, so with any luck they won't know why their guys are dead. Figured that would help to keep them from directly being able to connect this with him," he pointed at Rabbit.

For the second time that night, there was silence in the room. Clint kept his eyes on Coulson, who looked at him thoughtfully.

Later that night, when everyone else had left to the bedrooms of the suite (two to a room, with Clint-the-rookie sleeping on the pull out couch bed) Coulson came back out to the room where Clint was staring at the TV and eating a protein bar. Coulson pulled up a chair. Clint kept his focus on the TV.

Coulson spoke in his normal, even tones. "We know of 18 kills to your name."

Barton looked sideways at him. "Missed a few, then."

"How many?" Coulson asked him.

Clint looked at him for a while, then went back to the banal show on the screen. "Why, will it make a difference?"

"We've recruited and trained you. That's not going to change. But if you have ways of disguising the distinctiveness of your chosen weapon, it would be a good thing for us to know."

Answering around a mouthful of the protein bar, as if it didn't matter to him, Clint told him, "Real number's a lot closer to 50."

They sat in silence for a while longer before Coulson spoke again. "How did killing those men tonight make you feel?"

The archer shrugged. "Brought the number two closer to 50." He finally really looked at the agent. "You expecting me to cry on your shoulder or somethin'?" Coulson shook his head. "I killed people. Wasn't the first, won't be the last. That's what you hired me for, right?"

"You protected the members of your team. That's a different focus than what you've done before."

Barton gave him a level look. "Probably ain't much of a difference to the dead guys. Dead's still dead."

"No, but it should make a difference to you," Coulson said as he stood. "Keep that in mind." And with that, he walked back into his bedroom and shut the door.

Clint got as much sleep that night as he expected to after a conversation with Coulson, which was to say not much.

It didn't take long for the story to make the rounds at SHIELD. Among other things, it cemented his codename as Hawkeye, which made Clint happy and seemed to anger Rick, who'd taken to calling him Country Boy, in what Clint suspected was an effort to make that his codename.

Coulson helped him write his report and explained exactly how many procedures and protocols he'd broken, but also commended him on taking appropriate action when he saw what was needed. Rabbit didn't pull any punches in making it clear that Clint had messed up but he also gave credit where it was due in acknowledging that Clint had pulled them all out of a bad situation. All in all, it didn't hurt Clint's reputation and actually helped it a bit. Clint would take what he could get.

Things would have been just fine, if it wasn't for Coulson's talk. Which made him start thinking about things that he normally just shoved down into a box in the dark recesses of his brain. And that, of course, made him start thinking again how there were things that everyone else around just seemed to _get_, and he didn't, and it was like colors all over again. Everyone else saw these red and yellow and green things and he had no idea what they were talking about; like it was some huge conspiracy against him.

And everyone knew that it was wrong to kill people, and you were supposed to feel bad about it if you did. Only sometimes it was okay and you shouldn't feel bad but they still expected you to. And just like the _colors_, he didn't know when he was supposed to feel okay and when it was supposed to bother him. His whole _job_ was to kill people.

He didn't think he was a psychopath, or a sociopath, or any of those paths, but obviously this was something else that was broken about him. He'd had a lot of time to think about it, on roof tops and next to camp fires, in hotel rooms and in his prison cell.

He'd kill Wilkerson all over again; really thought he did the right thing. Okay, maybe not in the best way. Some of those sights and sounds still haunted him. But it still felt like self-defense to him. He hadn't killed Jacques or Buck, but if he'd been able to catch them, he would have done it and felt justified.

Two different lawyers and juries told him he was wrong on both counts. Apparently he wasn't good enough to make the decision about who needed to die. SHIELD told him the same thing; he was only to take out targets after intel had decided things for him. And he could get that, really he could. Clint had no delusions that he made good choices, so he was willing to admit that a whole team of analysts and consultants and people like Coulson probably were better able to decide things.

But then things like that mission with Rabbit happened. And everyone seemed okay with him making the decision about who lived and who died. Mostly. Except he was supposed to tell them, and apparently he was supposed to be bothered by it.

Clint really didn't feel badly about killing people who were going to kill someone. And he didn't know why he was supposed to – it wasn't like he knew the two people he'd put arrows into. But everyone seemed to think he would, even the shrink he had to go as part of the mission.

Clint told him what he thought he was supposed to tell a shrink. The shrink just Mmmmm'd and set up recurring sessions.

Clint sighed. He'd figure out how to fit in someday. Along with everything else that he needed to figure out.

Coulson frowned at him. "You haven't logged any afternoon reading hours."

Barton gave a dramatic sigh from where he was lying on the couch, half of his limbs hanging off the couch. Coulson was never entirely certain if he was irritated when the young man acted like a teenager, or oddly touched that Barton seemed to feel safe enough to act like the teen he probably never had a chance to be.

"The books are boring," he whined.

"Then read something else," Phil replied calmly.

"I don't have anything else to read!"

"You spend a lot of time online. Read something online."

"Okay boss, sure thing," Clint said with a smirk.

Two days later, Barton sauntered into Coulson's office and dropped two reading reports on his desk, then threw himself onto the couch. Coulson finished up his current task, then read the reports. He looked up at Barton, who grinned at him.

"This will be acceptable no more than twice a week." Phil was proud of the way that he kept his voice devoid of any emotion.

Barton scowled. "I can read porn as much as I want."

Coulson nodded. "Yes you can. But you can only use it as your reading report twice a week. For the other days, may I recommend archery forums, hunting forums, any firearm related website, automotive manuals…" He thought for a moment. "Do you still watch movies with your friends?"

The blonde looked confused. "Uh, sometimes, what's that got to do with it?"

"Watch subtitled films with them. Text based games will count also," Coulson thought out loud.

"I can play games," the disbelief and uncertainty stained Barton's voice, "as part of reading assignment. Aren't you going to make me do, I don't know, real reading?"

Coulson explained, "Barton, reading a variety of different words is the best thing you can do. If you read as many different things as you can, you'll be exposed to more words. And if you get those words from sources that are meaningful and interesting to you, you're more likely to remember them, and movies and games that you like will give you that. That's why I don't mind you reading the porn, although I'll pass on the reports on that. But please remember that eventually we're going to need you to read and write situation reports. There's not a lot of vocabulary that overlaps those two situations."

Clint laughed, "I dunno, insertion, extraction, movement, shooting…"

"Get out of my office, Barton."

It took them almost a full day of walking through thick forest, and one intense section of mountain hiking, but Clint and Ivory finally made it to a point where they could set up their surveillance on the plantation that was suspected to be a cover for weapon smuggling. Specifically, biomechanical weapons that were being designed by A.I.M.

The two snipers had set up a minimal camp consisting of a pup tent disguised with branches and stuffed under the branches of some sort of conifer tree. They were taking turns watching and resting, eating MRE's and mostly depending on their gear to get them through the steadily dropping temperatures.

It was currently Clint's turn for down time after his shift, and he was eating his MRE (Maple Sausage, the package claimed) before laying down to try to rest. He ate the granola with blueberries while the sausage heated, saving the pop tart, muffin and crackers for later.

He had to admit, being properly supplied made wilderness survival a _lot_ easier. When SHIELD was chasing him through Eastern Europe, he'd mostly just endured, buying food when he could and stealing it more often, but mostly just going hungry. Here, he had a snack before warm food and had plenty left over for later. In addition he had a sleeping bag and a tent – this was fucking luxury compared to what he'd had before.

With a full belly, food for later, and a sleeping bag inside a tent, he laid down to sleep, in more physical comfort than he had experienced for most of his life.

It didn't last. A few hours before his next shift, Ivory woke him with a kick to the bottom of his feet and a whispered, "Hawkeye. We got company."

Clint pulled on his boots, grabbed his bow and crawled out to meet Ivory at their observation site. Hedley handed him night vision goggles and Clint got a good look at what was going on.

Several teams of people in tactical gear were crossing the last few yards of ground to the concrete buildings. The problem was, the metal buildings that looked like storage were the locations where the weapons seemed to be stored, along with security personnel that seemed to be at least competent.

Ivory was calling in the attack to their handler, trying to coordinate their presence with the combat force. Clint looked at him. "What the hell are you doing? Let's sit tight, keep our heads down and stay the fuck out of this."

Hedley shook his head, "At the very least, I'd like them to know that there are two friendlies out here so we don't get targeted. And we're not just friendlies; we're a sniper team. We're a big tactical advantage that they might be able to take advantage of."

Clint looked back over his shoulder to say, "Getting involved in someone else's fight is _never_ a good idea."

"Yeah, well," whatever Ivory was going to say was drowned out by an explosion. Clint swore, relieved that he hadn't been looking towards the compound at the time; the bright light would have blinded him.

Ivory grabbed his rifle and fell forward into a prone position next to Clint. "Velvet's handling the communications. We need to handle the shooting."

Cursing under his breath, Clint pulled his rifle into his shoulder and rested his cheek against the stock. Through his scope, he saw the attacking force was being overrun by the A.I.M. security forces even as they began a strategic retreat. He took a breath, pushed his misgivings down into a tight ball in his belly, and started picking off targets.

Sure enough, it wasn't too long before someone in the compound figured out that there was a sniper out there. Several tiny drones took off and headed in their direction. Their handler hadn't been able to reach the infiltration force to make them aware of the friendlies, so Clint and Ivory were on their own. Clint tried to take them down, _but the erratic movements of the black drones in the night sky, and with his eyes already dealing with too much light from the fire... well, it all added up to mean that they were rapidly getting too close for comfort ."_

"Ivory!"

"Little busy here."

"Yeah, well, we got incoming and I can't stop them. We gotta go!" Clint was already slinging his rifle across his back and going back for his go bag.

"They're not all out yet!" Ivory took another shot, the crack of the rifle echoing out across the landscape.

"Fuck them, _we_ need to get out! Now!" Clint grabbed Ivory's bag, his body quivering with the build up of adrenaline.

"Not until we get them all out," Ivory said, taking another shot.

Clint let out every curse he knew, dropped both bags and hit the ground. He abandoned the careful sighting he'd been taught in SHIELD and started shooting as fast as he could, depending on instincts honed by years in the circus.

If he died here, he was going to haunt Ivory for the rest of his life.

Although it seemed like forever, less than a minute passed before Ivory got to his feet. "Secondary location, NOW!"

They both ran for all they were worth. They weren't too far into the shelter of the trees before they heard their former location get hit. By unspoken agreement, they both went to ground as soon as they found suitable vegetation. Clint pulled his hood up over his head and hoped that the R&D team had actually pulled off the thermal shielding they claimed to have woven into the cloth of his ghillie suit.

Then there was nothing to do but wait, and hope. The drones came and went several times over the next few hours, as the world lightened around them. Footsteps came closer, then passed.

More hours went by.

The footsteps returned and left several times.

It wasn't until after midnight on the night after that failed attack, that Ivory gave the okay on moving. They pushed themselves, focusing more on moving steadily rather than quickly, reaching their extraction point 58 hours after they first left their primary location.

12 hours later they finally returned to SHIELD headquarters. Clint collapsed into his bed and slept for 14 hours. The debrief was the longest he'd ever had to endure, and consisted of written reports, oral reports to three different people, and a joint session with Ivory.

In his private debrief with Coulson, Clint eventually confessed that he had disagreed with Ivory and tried to get him to change his mind. He laid down all of the reasons why retreating and not getting involved were the better options, and why getting involved was tactically unsound.

Coulson listened to him, as always, but then commented, "Being part of SHIELD is being part of something bigger. We're not perfect. We do make mistakes. It's an incredibly difficult job, and people get killed in our line of work. But we've found that brings us closer to each other. We have a brotherhood here. We don't abandon each other, we don't leave people."

Clint said in angry disbelief, "You'll trash an op just to get someone out? I don't think so."

Coulson acknowledged his point with a counterpoint, "There are rarely only two options. We will allow a setback, we will delay things, we will create diversions or sow discord. We do what it takes."

The former assassin sat in silence for an extended moment, finally asking quietly, "Why?"

"There are a lot of reasons, most of them exactly what I just told you. But the one you'll listen to is, SHEILD inspires loyalty by being loyal. When people know that they can trust, that they will be taken care of, they care more. They work harder, they do more."

Clint sat in silence after that, until it was time to go to his next round of debriefings. Hours more of sitting still in uncomfortable chairs, while other people picked apart every decision and action. The only upside was that they received a communique from the forces. Given how much of a clusterfuck it had been, casualties were lower than expected, and much of the credit for that was given to the 'unknown sniper team.' Clint and Ivory each received a copy of the letter.

Clint tacked it to the wall next to his bed.

"Agent Barton," Bernard answered the phone as he tossed yet another dart at the board in his office.

"I have some information that may be of interest to you," Coulson said on the other end of the line.

He leaned forward in his seat, placing the rest of the darts in his desk drawer. "Phil! What's up?"

"I have something that you're going to want to see."

Bernard and his adoptive family watched as his baby brother stepped forward onto the stage with the rest of his graduating class. Today marked their official promotions to Agents. Bernard knew that it meant so much more to Clint. He could see fear and anxiety and pride all fighting for real estate on his face.

Bernard had been feeling the same emotions ever since that phone call, three years ago, when he found out that his brother was alive, and a killer. He never thought pride and happiness would be words that he got to use for his brother after that.

Six months ago, his brother had arrived at SHIELD's doorstep, broken, full of despair and anger and not much else. But even then, there had still been hope. Clint had always been a survivor and here, he'd not only survived, but thrived.

Bernard couldn't imagine being prouder of his brother than he was in this moment. Clint, who'd been 'that damned kid', then 'Hawkeye', then 'The Archer' and then 'inmate', was now Agent Barton. Despite everything, he'd remade himself yet again, this time into something to be proud of. That agent stood on the stage, full of pride and dignity and respect.

"Clint 'Hawkeye' Barton." Clint stepped forward, Director Fury fixed a small metal pin to the front of his tactical gear. For the first time, he was a full agent and allowed to wear the SHIELD symbol. He looked down at it, then up at Fury. He said something to Fury, too quiet for them to hear in the audience, but Fury's short laugh reached them.

SHIELD Agent Barton walked over to join the rest of his class, several of whom greeted him with grins and handshakes.

After everyone had received their pin, Director Fury made one more short speech.

"In each graduating class, we give an award to the trainee who demonstrates outstanding leadership, and principles, and who personified SHIELD's mandate to be a force for good in this world. Otter, step forward, please." Director Fury gave her another pin, this one of a star, and a plaque.

"I'd like to give another award to a trainee who showed almost none of those traits." The audience laughed, then Director Fury continued. "But by God he demonstrated skills, the ability to survive almost every shit storm we threw him in, and a resilience that will do him well in the field. And he did it all with a Paleolithic weapon consisting of a stick and a string. Hawkeye, front and center!"

Clint stepped up. This pin was of a scarab, or, as Director Fury informed them with a devilish grin, a dung beetle. The plaque was blue with silver highlights, and Clint held it proudly throughout the rest of the ceremony.

Afterwards, as everyone mingled and gave congratulations, Coulson introduced Bernard to some colleagues he worked closely with. "Sitwell, Hill, this is my old friend, FBI Agent Bernard Barton."

As Hill shook his hand, she asked, "Who are you here for?"

He gave a big smile. "The archer is my brother, Clint."

~fin

Author's Note: What is Clint's vision like? I'm doing a HUGE amount of hand waving here. I've taken the idea of blue cone monochromacy and frantically waved a lot of comic book science at it and called it good. So basically, in my world, he sees blue and purple; everything else is grayscale to him. Like an old black and white photograph that's been tinted, but only the blue things.

toys/colors/ Select the atypical monochromacy to see what Clint does. This is my explanation of why he likes purple. *handwave* After a lot of research, I'm not at all certain this is accurate, but it's beautiful.

Finally, this absolutely couldn't have been possible without the constructive criticism, feedback, cheerleading and general awesomeness of the Beta Branch.


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